Iff!  tj!!i:f;!   'I 


. 
/ 

Division 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 


WILLIAM  OILMAN  THOMPSON. 


,  fro  c  "f  e  r 


DRAMATIC    SCENES. 


WITH    OTHER    POEMS, 


NOW    FIRST   PRINTED. 


DY 


B  Y 


BARRY     CORNWALL, 


AUTHOR   OF    "  ENGLISH    SONGS,"  ETC. 


BOSTON: 
TICK  NOR    AND     FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LVII. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
THURSTON  AND  TORRY,  PRINTERS 


PREFACE. 

OF  the  following  "  Dramatic  Scenes,"  some  were 
written  thirty,  and  the  others  forty  years  ago  :  the  first 
six  scenes  (published  in  1819  and  1820)  being  now 
materially  condensed  and  altered. 

The  Miscellaneous  Poems,  constituting  "  Part  the 
Third  "  in  the  present  volume,  have  never  been  before 
printed.  With  the  exception  of  three  small  pieces  of 
verse,  they  bear  date  many  years  back.  They  have, 
however,  been  corrected,  in  some  instances  completed, 
more  recently. 

In  all  probability,  this  book  is  the  last  with  which  I 
shall  try  the  patience  of  the  Public. 

At  one  time,  I  —  in  common  with  other  lovers  of  the 
charming  Art  of  Poesy  —  prepared  myself  to  enter  those 
lists,  where  the  Muses  are  said  to  award  a  wreath  to 


IV  PREFACE. 

each  of  the  bolder  combatants ;  but  a  long  life  of  labor 
(my  destiny)  ensued,  presenting  few  intervals  of  leisure, 
and  forcing  my  thoughts  into  another  course. 

If  years  have  not  "  brought  the  philosophic  mind," 
they  have  at  least  quelled  those  aspirations  which  are 
troublesome  only  to  the  young ;  and  I  now  feel  that  I 
ought  to  disburthen  myself  from  my  armor,  and  leave  to 
more  active  and  heroic  spirits,  the  glory  of  the  struggle, 
and  the  crown  that  awaits  success. 

B.   W.  PROCTER. 


CONTENTS. 


PART    THE    FIRST. 

DRAMATIC   SCENES.  PAGE 

LUDOVICO    SFORZA 3 

LYSANDER   AND    IONE 

JUAN               .            .            .            .            •            ...  35 

THE  WAY  TO  CONQUER    .        .        .        •        •  55 

THE  BROKEN  HEART     .         .         .         •         •         »  69 

)THE  FALCON 

THE  LAST  SONG HO 


PART    THE    SECOND. 
DRAMATIC   SCENES. 

PANDEMONIUM H5 

THE   TEMPTATION 131 

MICHAEL    ANGELO              .             .             .             .             •  .163 

RAFFAELLE   AND    FORNARINA        .... 
THE   FLORENTINE   PARTY           .             .             .             •  .201 

THE    VICTIM 225 


VI  CONTENTS. 


PART    THE    THIRD. 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS.  FACE 

THE   FIRST    DAY   OF   THE   YEAR         ....  253 

MARCH APRIL MAY      .      '       .  .  .  .  255 

THE  PICTURE 257 

THE   PARISH   DOCTOR 260 

ABOVE   AND   BELOW 262 

A    GARDEN    SCENE      264 

PROVERBIAL    PHILOSOPHY         .....  267 

CELATA    VIRTUS  ......  271 

AN   ACQUAINTANCE  ......  273 

EX   FUMO 275 

PLATONIC 279 

THE    SEXES 281 

QUESTIONS    TO    A    SPIRITUAL   FRIEND         .  .  .  282 

AN   INTERIOR 285 

SEEING  ........  287 

HEARING 291 

PHRYNE       ........  293 

MAUVAISE  HONTE     .         .         .         .         .          .  295 

LOVE —  (MODERATO) 297 

LOVE  —  (TEMPESTOSO) 298 

TO  A  FOREIGN  ACTRESS         .....  300 

PARTHIAN  LOVE 301 

FAR  NIENTE         .......  302 

TO  JOHN  FORSTER,  WITH  SHAKESPERE's  WORKS  .  306 

EPISTLE  FROM  AN  OBSCURE  PHILOSOPHER       .        .  307 

LE  SCELERAT  .  318 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  —  continued.  PAGE 

THE   VICTOR  .......  320 

THE   KING    IS    DEAD 322 

TO    A   MYTH 324 

VANITY   FAIR 326 

JACK   TURPIN 329 

OLD    LOVE 332 

A    COMPLAINT 334 

A    PETITION 335 

LIFE 337 

A  WORD  ON  BEHALF  OF  WATER    .        .        .        .338 

ON  YORICK,  A  LITTLE  SPANIEL         .        .        .  339 

THE  FISHER'S  WIFE      ......  341 

SONG 342 

SISTERS  OF  MUSIC 343 

THE  SPOT  OF  GREEN     .....  344 

PRISON  POETRY •  345 

AFTER  DEATH 3  15 

POVERTY 346 

THE   ALL-SUFFICIENT 348 

EVENING   SONG       .......  349 

THE   PAST          ...'...  350 

VAGUE  WISHES 351 

LOVE  FOR  LOVE 353 

THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  SONG     .....  354 

LOVE-BIRD 355 

HERMELIN 356 

SONG 357 

PAST  AND  PRESENT 358 

A  COMMON  CHARACTER 359 

SONG    FOR   ALL    SEASONS  .  .  .  .  .360 

A   QUESTION    ANSWERED      ....  362 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  —  continued.  PAOB 

FORSAKE  ME  NOT 364 

FROM  THE  LAMP       •  .     .      .      .      .  3G5 

TO  THE  LAMP .  367 

A    FAREWELL   TO  VERSE 368 


LUDOYICO   SFORZA. 


I'll  close  mine  eyes, 

And  in  a  melancholy  thought  I'll  frame 

Her  figure  'fore  me.     Now  I  have  it  —  how  strong 

Imagination  works  !  how  she  can  frame 

Things  which  are  not !  methinks  she  stands  afore  me. 

WEBSTER  —  The  White  Devil,  Act  III. 

Evad.     Stay,  sir,  stay  : 

You  are  too  hot,  and  I  have  brought  you  physic 
To  temper  your  high  veins. 

King.     Thou  dost  not  mean  this  ;  'tis  impossible  : 
Thou  art  too  sweet  and  gentle. 

Evad.     No,  I  am  not. 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER  —  The  Maid's 

[  Tragedy,  Act  V. 


LUDOVICO    SFORZA. 

[This  scene  is  founded  partly  on  a  fact  in  Italian  history.  Ludo- 
vico  Sforza,  uncle  of  the  young  Duke  of  Milan,  was  present  at 
his  marriage  with  Isabella,  grand-daughter  of  the  King  of 
Naples.  Sforza  was  much  struck  with  the  beauty  of  Isabella ; 
and  it  was  supposed  that  he  caused  his  nephew,  Galeazzo,  to  be 
poisoned.  The  last  scene,  which  occurs  after  the  lapse  of  a 
year,  is  imaginary.] 

SCENE   I.  — A  Street. 
DUKE  OF  MILAN.     LUDOVICO  SFORZA. 

DUKE. 

And  this  proud  lady,  was  she  chaste  as  fair  ? 

SFORZA. 

Pure  as  the  flame  that  burnt  on  Dian's  altar, 
And  lovely  as  the  morning.     Oh  !  she  shone 
Like  one  of  those  bright  shapes  of  fabling  Greece, 
(Born  of  the  elements,)  which,  as  men  tell, 
Wooed  mortals  to  their  arms.     A  form  more  beautiful, 


6  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Houri  or  child  o'  the  air,  ne'er  glanced  upon 
A  poet's  dream,  nor  in  Arabian  story 
Gave  promise  of  their  vaunted  paradise. 
Then,  her  voice  was  sweet 
And  tuned  to  music,  bearing  with  it  a  charm, 
Like  numbers  floating  from  the  breathed  flute, 
Caught  afar  off,  —  and  which  the  idle  winds 
Of  June,  through  wantonness  at  evening,  fling 
O'er  banks  and  beds  of  flowers. 

DUKE. 

And  she  is  dead  ? 

[ISABELLA  appears  at  a  window. 

SFORZA. 

Dead,  dead !     No  ;  what  is  this  ?  quick,  tell  me,  sir. 
Yon  vision  ? 

DUKE. 
Uncle,  look  upon  her,  —  there. 

SFORZA. 

I  see :  the  grave  gives  up  its  habitant. 
It  is  herself,  —  her  shadow.     Can  the  eye 
Resume  its  lustre,  after  death  has  drawn 
His  filmy  veil  around  it  ?     Look ! 

DUKE. 
My  lord  ? 


LTJDOVICO    SFORZA.  7 

SFORZA. 

She's  vanished. 

[ISABELLA  leaves  the  window. 

DUKE. 
'Tis  Isabella,  sir  ;  my  bride. 

SFORZA. 

Your  bride  ? 

She's  very  fair.     I've  seen  the  face  before  ; 

Dreamed  of  it  —  somewhere  :  where  ?    I  know  not  where. 

I'll  dream  no  more,  but  think ;  and  act,  —  perhaps. 

Enter  ISABELLA  attended;  PIERO  DE  MEDICI,  and  others. 

DUKE. 

My  Isabella!  you  have  rested  well, 
After .•: your  journey  ?  well  ?     Fatigue  seems  loth 
To  harm  you  ;  and  your  eyes  are  spared,  I  see, 
For  many  a  Milan  conquest. 

ISABELLA. 

There's  but  one 

My  duty  bids  me  look  to. 

DUKE. 
And  your  heart  ? 

ISABELLA. 

And  —  and  my  heart. 


8  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

DUKE. 

Come  hither  !  a  few  words 

[They  talk  aside. 

DE    MEDICI. 

My  lord,  my  lord  ! 

SFORZA. 

Ha  !  my  De  Medici !  welcome. 

DE   MEDICI. 

Thanks,  dear  Sforza  ; 

Are  you  so  wrapped  in  dreams  you  miss  your  friends  ? 


No  ;  'tis  my  nephew,  in  a  fairy  dream,' 
Forgets  me. 

DUKE. 

My  dear  uncle,  pardon,  pardon. 

This  is  my  guardian,  dearest  Isabel : 

My  father,  I  should  say :  I  pray  you  love  him. 

SFORZA. 

Ludovico  Sforza,  lady,  and  your  knight ; 
If  you  will  own  so  poor  a  one. 

ISABELLA. 

Thanks,  sir. 


LUDOVICO    SFORZA. 
DUKE. 

Look  !     Those  are  the  Alps,  my  love. 

SFORZA. 

Ay  ;  turn  your  eyes 

Here,  madam.     Look !  methinks  their  snowy  crowns 

Shine  radiantly  as  they  had  seen  the  sun. 

DUKE. 

The  very  hills  give  welcome  to  my  love ; 
And  every  thing  seems  happy  now,  but  most 
The  heart  of  Milan. 

ISABELLA. 

You  will  spoil  me,  sir. 

SFORZA. 

This  day  looks  like 

The  holiday  of  Nature,  madam,  and  you 

The  queen  of 't. 

ISABELLA. 

Pray,  no  more. 

DUKE. 

No  more  then.     Come  ! 

The  heat  will  mar  you  :  let  us  seek  the  shade. 


10  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

SFORZA. 

I'll  follow.  [Exeunt. 

She's  gone  —  and  it  is  night.     What !  shall  I  in  age 

Sink  into  folly  ?  and  this  puny  boy 

To  cheat  his  tutor !     It  may  please  him  now 

To  reign  in  Milan  :  no,  no,  that's  my  care. 

Oh !  what  an  eye  she  has.     Tt  is  not  likely 

She  will  live  quiet  here  :  her  look  forbids  it. 

She  will  be  Duke  :  and  I Now  had  I  been 

The  same  Ludovico  Sforza  who  did  win, 
Some  twenty  years  ago,  the  prize  at  Florence, 
Perhaps  she  might  have  loved  me.     Love  ?  —  that  I 
Might  conquer ;  or  my  ambition.     Ah,  but  here 
Both  spur  me  on  :  my  path  is  traced,  —  but  where  ? 
That's  hid  in  the  mist  of  time.     I'll  think  upon't. 

[Exit. 


LTJDOVICO    SFORZA.  11 


SCENE   II.  —  A  Room,  with  a  Banquet. 
[A  year  has  passed.] 

ISABELLA. 

Time  lags,  and  slights  his  duty.     I  remember 

The  days  when  he  would  fly.     How  sweet  they  were  ! 

Then  I  rebuked  his  speed,  and  now  —  and  now 

I  drench  his  wing  with  tears.     How  heavily 

The  minutes  pass  !     Can  he  avoid  me  ?     No. 

I  hear  a  step  come  sounding  through  the  hall. 

It  is  the  murderer,  Sf'orza.     Now,  my  heart ! 

Rise  up  in  thy  full  strength,  and  do  the  act 

Of  justice  bravely.     So,  he's  here. 

Enter  SFORZA. 

SFORZA. 
My  love ! 

O  my  delight,  my  deity !  I  am  come 
To  thank  you  for  being  gracious.     I  am  late  ? 

ISABELLA. 

No  :  in  the  best  of  times,  sir. 


12  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

SFORZA. 

Yet  you  look 

Not  gay,  my  Isabella.     Nought  has  happened 

To  shake  your  promise  ? 

ISABELLA . 

Be  assured  of  that. 

Doubt  not,  nor  chide,  my  lord.     My  heart,  you  know, 

Falls  faint  at  times.     To-night  I'll  do  my  best 

To  entertain  you  as  you  merit. 

SFORZA. 
Better,  I  hope,  my  Isabel. 

ISABELLA. 

Your  grace 

May  challenge  any  thing ;  from  me  the  most. 

Although  a  widow,  not  divested  quite 

Of  all  her  sorrows,  I  am  here  to  smile 

Like  tearful  April  on  you  :  but  you'll  grow 

To  vanity,  sir,  unless  some  stop  be  put 

To  your  amorous  conquests.     I  must  do't. 

SFORZA . 

You  shall, 

You  shall,  my  Isabella. 

ISABELLA . 

Sir,  I  will. 


LUDOVICO    SFOHZA.  13 

You  shall  be  wholly  mine,  till  —  death  shall  part  us. 
I  have  been  full  of  miseries :  they  have  swelled 
My  heart  to  bursting.     You  shall  soothe  me. 

SFORZA. 
How? 

ISABELLA. 

We'll  find  a  way  :  nay,  not  so  free,  my  lord ; 
I  must  be  won  with  words,  (though  hollow  ;)  smiles, 
And  vows,  (although  you  mean  them  not ;)  kind  looks 
And  excellent  flattery.     Come,  my  lord,  what  say  you  ? 
I'm  all  impatience. 

SFORZA. 

Oh !  what  can  I  say  ? 

Thou  art  so  lovely,  that  all  words  must  fail. 
They  of  whom  poets  sing  men  say  were  shadows ; 
Thus  will  they  swear  of  thee. 

ISABELLA. 

Alas !  my  lord, 

I  have  no  laureate  here  to  lie  in  rhyme  ; 

So  must  remain  unsung. 

SFORZA. 

But  I  will  have 

Your  name  recorded  in  the  sweetest  verse  ; 

And  sculptors  shall  do  honor  to  themselves 


14  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

And  their  delicious  art  by  fashioning  thee ; 
And  painters  shall  devise  for  us  a  story, 
Where  thou  and  I,  love,  shall  be  seen  reclining, 
Thou  on  my  arm 

ISABELLA. 

A  happy  thought ! 

SFORZA. 

And  in 

The  guise  of  the  throned  Juno  ;  I  as  Jove, 
In  his  diviner  moments,  languishing 
Beneath  thy  look. 

ISABELLA. 

She  was  a  shrew,  my  lord, 

That  queen  o'  the  heavens,  and  I 

SFORZA. 

Then  thou  shalt  be  drawn 

Like  her  who,  in  old  inimitable  tales, 

Was  pictured  gathering  flowers  in  Sicily, 

And  raised  to  Pluto's  throne  :  methinks  she  was 

A  beautiful  prophecy  of  thee  ;  and  there 

Mountains  shall  rise,  and  grassy  valleys  lie 

Asleep  i'  the  sun,  and  blue  Sicilian  streams 

Shall  wander,  and  green  woods,  (just  touched  with  light,) 

Shall  yield  their  foreheads  to  some  western  wind, 

And  bend  to  bright  Apollo  as  he  comes 


LTTDOVICO    SFOBZA. 


15 


Smiling  from  out  the  east.     What  more  ?     Why  you 
Shall  kneel  and  pluck  the  flowers,  and  look  aside 
Hearkening  for  me  ;  and  —  I  will  be  there,  (a  god,) 
Rushing  tow'rds  thee,  my  sweet  Proserpina. 


An  ugly  story ! 
How,  sweet  ? 


ISABELLA. 


SFORZA. 


ISABELLA. 


You  would  take  me 

To  —  HELL  then  ?  but  forgive  me  :  I  am  ill ; 
Distract  at  times :  we'll  now  forget  it  all. 
Come,  you  will  taste  my  poor  repast  ? 


Oh,  surely. 


We'll  be  alone. 


SFORZA. 


ISABELLA. 


SFORZA. 


Tis  better.     Yet  I  have  [They  feast. 

No  relish  for  common  viands.     Shall  I  drink 
To  thee,  my  queen  ? 


16  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

ISABELLA. 

To  me,  sir.     This  (look  on't) 
Is  a  curious  wine  ;  and  like  those  precious  drops 
Sought  by  philosophers,  (the  life  elixir,) 
Will  make  you  immortal. 

SFORZA. 

Give  it  me,  my  love. 
May  you  ne'er  know  an  hour  of  sorrow. 

ISABELLA. 

Ha! 

Stay,  stay  :  soft,  put  it  down. 

SFORZA. 

Why,  how  is  this  ? 

ISABELLA. 

Would — would  you  drink  without  me  ?  Shame  upon  you  ! 
Look  at  this  fruit :  a  sea-worn  captain,  one 
Who  had  sailed  all  'round  the  world,  brought  it  for  me 
From  the  Indian  isles  ;  the  natives  there,  men  say, 
Worship  it.     This; 

SFORZA. 

It  has  a  luscious  taste. 

My  nephew,  when  he  lived,  loved  such  a  fruit. 


LTJDOVICO    SFORZA.  17 

ISABELLA. 

Thanks,  spirit  of  vengeance  !  [Aside. 

Now  you  shall  taste  the  immortal  wine,  my  lord, 
And  drink  a  health  to  Cupid. 

SFORZA. 
Cupid,  then. 

He  was  &  cunning  god  :  he  dimmed  men's  eyes, 
'Tis  prettily  said  i'  the  fable.     But  my  eyes 
(Yet  how  I  love !)  are  clear  as  though  I  were 
A  stoic.     Ah ! 

ISABELLA. 

What  ails  my  lord  ? 

SFORZA. 
The  wine  is  cola1. 

ISABELLA. 

You'll  find  it  warmer,  shortly. 

It  is  its  nature,  as  I'm  told,  to  heat 

The  heart.     My  lord,  I  read  but  yesterday 

Of  an  old  man,  a  Grecian  poet,  who 

Devoted  all  his  life  to  wine,  and  died 

O'  the  grape.     Methinks  'twas  just. 

SFORZA 

Twas  so.     This  wine 

2 


18  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

ISABELLA. 

And  stories  have  been  told  of  men  whose  lives 
Were  infamous,  and  so  their  end.     I  mean 
That  the  red  murderer  has  himself  been  murdered ; 
The  traitor  struck  with  treason  :  he  who  let 
The  orphan  perish,  came  himself  to  want : 
Thus  justice  and  great  God  have  ordered  it ! 
So  that  the  scene  of  evil  has  been  turned 
Against  the  actor  ;  pain  paid  back  with  pain  ; 
And  — poison  given  for  poison. 

SFORZA. 
Oh,  my  heart ! 

ISABELLA. 

Is  the  wine  still  so  cold,  sir  ? 

SFORZA. 

I  am  burning. 

Some  water  :  I  burn  with  thirst.     Oh  !  what  is  this  ? 

ISABELLA. 

You're  pale  :  I'll  call  for  help.     Here  ! 
Servants  enter. 

ISABELLA. 

Bind  that  man 
To  his  seat. 


LUDOYICO    SFORZA.  19 

SFORZA. 

Ah !  traitress. 

ISABELLA. 

Leave  us  now,  —  alone.  [Servants  exeunt. 

My  lord !  I'll  not  deceive  you  :  you  have  drank 
Your  last  draught  in  this  world. 

SFORZA. 

My  heart,  my  heart ! 
Traitress  !  I  faint  —  faint :  ah  ! 

ISABELLA. 

1  would  have  done 

Some  act  of  justice  in  a  milder  shape : 

But  it  could  not  be.     I  felt  that  you  must  die ; 

For  my  sake,  for  my  boy,  for  Milan.     You 

Murdered  my  lord  husband.     Stare  not  thus  : 

'Tis  melancholy  truth.     You  have  usurped 

The  first  place  in  the  dukedom ;  have  swept  down 

My  child's  rights  to  the  dust.     What  say  you,  sir  ? 

Do  you  impeach  my  story  ?     While  you've  time, 

Give  answer.  [He  dies. 

You  are  silent  ?  then,  are  you 

Condemned  for  ever.     I  could  grieve,  almost, 

To  see  his  ghastly  stare.     His  eye  is  vague ; 

Is  motionless.     How  like  those  shapes  he  grows, 

That  sit  in  stony  whiteness  over  tombs, 

Memorials  of  their  cold  inhabitants. 


20  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Speak !  are  you  sunk  to  stone  ?     What  can  you  say 

In  your  defence,  sir  ?     Turn  your  eyes  away. 

How  dare  you  look  at  me,  so  steadily  ? 

You  shall  be  amorous  no  more.     Must  I 

Rouse  you  ?    How  idly  his  arms  hang.    Turn  your  eyes 

Aside.     I  dare  not  touch  him  ;  yet  I  must. 

Ha  !  he  is  dead. —  dead  ;  slain  by  me  !    Great  Heaven  ! 

Forgive  me  •  Pm  a  widow  broken-hearted. 

A  mother  too  :  'twas  for  my  child  I  struck. 

Yon  bloody  man  did  press  so  hardly  on  us  : 

He  would  have  torn  my  pretty  bird  from  me : 

[  had  but  one  :  what  could  I  do  to  save  it  ? 

There  was  no  other  way  ! 


LYSANDER  AND  TONE. 


Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair  ? 

Oh  !  if  you  have 

Hid  them  in  some  fiWery  cave, 

Tell  me  but  where. 

MILTON  —  Comus. 

But  she 

Did  not  disdain  to  give  his  love  contenting  ; 
Cruel  the  soul  that  feeds  on  souls  tormenting  : 
Nor  did  she  scorn  him,  though  not  nobly  born  ; 

LOVE  IS  NOBILITY. 

SPENSER  —  Britain's  Ida. 


LYSANDER   AND   IONE. 


LYSANDER.    IONE.    (A  Wood.) 

LYSANDER. 

Now,  sit. 

IONE. 

Here  ? 

LTSANDER. 

Here  : 

The  embroiderer,  Moss,  hath  wrought  you  a  golden  seat. 

Disdain  her  not,  the  yellow-tressed  Moss  ; 

For  she  is  Nature's  handmaid,  decking  aye 

Her  boddice  with  bright  flowers  ;  and  when  decay 

Winters  the  rock  or  tree,  her  fringed  gold 

She  leaves  to  hide  the  poor  thing's  poverty. 

IONE. 
So,  there  :  now  kneel  and  worship. 

LYSANDER. 

I  will ;  I  do  :  Oh !  Heavens  of  love,  I  do. 


24  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Deep  worshipper  am  I  for  one  so  young ; 

But  Love  has  taught  me :  he  matured  my  thought ; 

And  so  beyond  my  years  I  worship  you. 

Stay  ;  stir  not,  sweet.     Sit  here. 

IONE. 
Tis  a  fair  place. 

LYSANDER. 

Ay;  Iris  hath  been  here,  beloved  one. 
The  rich  Spring's  almoner  is  she,  who  scatters 
Upon  the  grateful  world  her  sweets  and  flowers. 
Bountiful  Spring  !     Is  it  not  strange  that  men 
Will  scorn  or  shun  her  favors  ?  will  bar  out 
The  beauty  of  the  day  and  vernal  airs, 
And  die  in  dreams  of  freedom  ? 

IONE. 

You  would  talk 

(And  I  might  listen)  till  we  both  forgot, 
That  I  have  cares  which  call  me. 

LYSANDER. 

We  will  meet 

To-morrow  early.     I  will  show  you  all 
The  secrets  of  our  forest.     Every  dell 
And  every  leafy  nook  and  cave  o'ergrown, 
The  rock,  the  river,  and  the  Dryad's  oak 
We'll  see  to-morrow.     What,  if  we  surprise 
A  wood-nymph  sleeping  ? 


LYSANDER    AND    IONE.  25 

IONE. 

This  to  me  ? 

LYSANDER. 

Why,  ay  ; 

For  then  I'll  show  you  how  the  true  heart  meets 

Beauty  unheeding. 

IONE. 

No,  no. 

LYSANDER. 

You  will  come. 

And  I  will  be  your  guard,  and  servant,  both  ; 

And,  as  we  pierce  the  untrodden  woods,  I'll  teach 

How  you  may  shun  the  briery  paths  and  pass 

The  snake  untouched  ;  and  we  will  hear  the  songs  — 

Ha  !  do  you  smile  ?  why  then  you'll  come. 

IONE. 

No. 

LYSANDEB. 

Yes. 

IONE. 

Be  not  too  sure,  Lysander.     Foolish  boy  ! 

To  give  your  heart  to  me,  —  to  me,  poor  youth, 

A  spirit  of  the  waters  ! 


26  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

LYSAXDER. 

You  are  more  ; 

My  queen,  my  goddess  !     Sole  and  peerless  queen  ! 

And  I  your  mest  true  subject. 

IONE. 
I  am  one 

Of  old  king  Nereus'  daughters,  gentlest  boy. 
My  home  lies  low  beneath  the  eternal  seas. 
My  country  (tho'  I  sometimes  earthward  stray) 
Is  where  the  mariner's  plummet  never  fell ; 
Down  in  the  fathomless  deep  :  the  wild  waves  there 
Sound  not,  nor  dare  the  watery  creatures  come 
To  gaze  upon  those  calm  and  sacred  sands. 
Beyond  your  reach  my  home  is. 

LYSANDER. 

Pretty  story  ! 

TONE. 

Believe  it,  fond  Lysander,  and  forget  me, 

But,  come  ;  as  you  have  loved  me  long  and  well, 

Have  you  not  sung  my  name  to  all  the  stars, 

And  vowed  mine  eyes  were  far  more  bright  than  they  ? 

A  lover  ?  he  should  tell  the  skies  his  love, 

And  make  the  air  acquainted  with  his  woe  ; 

Should  tell  to  budding  morn,  to  lazy  noon, 

To  waters  where  the  unsunned  Dian  comes 


LYSANDEE,   AND    IONE.  27 

Dipping  her  silver  feet,  all  his  chaste  joy. 
But  you  have  done  this  ? 

LYSANDER. 

Often,  oft. 

IONE. 

Indeed  1 

How  did  you  name  me  ? 

LYSANDER. 

Sweet  lone !     Fair 

And  beautiful  lone  !  fair  and  dear ! 

Too  dear,  because  too  cold  art  thou  to  me. 

lone  !  list,  —  lone  !     Pretty  name  ! 

Is  it  not  yours  ? 

IONE. 

'Tis  mine,  and  you  shall  sing 
A  forest  song  in  its  honor. 

LYSANDER. 

Listen,  then,  love  ;  and  with  your  white  hand  clear 

Your  marble  forehead  from  its  cloudy  hair. 

So,  thus  ;  your  eye  bent  towards  me  ; 

How  brightly  it  burns  upon  me  !     Listen,  sweet. 

Yet,  'tis  a  melancholy  song  ;  confused  ; 

Half  dream  and  half  despair.     You  will  but  smile  at 't  ? 


28  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

IONE. 

Sing  on,  sing  on  :  I  love  a  wild  song.     Sing ! 

LYSANDER. 

Now,  by  Night !  I  swear 

I  love  thee,  delicate  lone  ! 

And,  when  I  lean  upon  my  thoughts  at  night, 

My  soul  grows  sick  with  love.     In  sleep,  in  dreams, 

Thou,  like  a  spirit  from  the  haunted  stars, 

Stand'st  plain  before  me.     I  have  seen  thee  come 

In  pale  and  shadowy  beauty  to  my  side ; 

Or,  floating  'tween  me  and  the  cloudless  moon, 

Stretch  forth,  like  silver  vapors,  thy  white  arms, 

And  breathe  upon  my  heart 

Arabian  odors,  sweet,  but  cold  as  death. 

1  love  thee ;  I  have  loved  thee,  long  and  well. 

lone,  daughter  of  the  eternal  Sea  ; 

Sea-born,  but  gifted  with  diviner  life, 

With  human  worth,  and  heavenly  goodness  crowned ; 

Peerless,  perennial,  without  stain  or  taint, 

Be  mortal  with  immortal  purity  ! 

But  thou  art  gone  ! 

And  now  I  wander  when  the  gusty  winds 

Chase  the  dark  clouds  across  the  star-dropt  plains  : 

For  then  methinks  I  see  thee,  pure  and  pale. 

I  love  to  lie  by  waterfalls,  alone ; 


LYSANDER    AND    IONE.  29 

To  hear  the  sad  boughs  moan, 

When  through  the  piny  forest  I  pursue 

My  solitary  way  : 

And  then  at  times  I  dream,  and  speak  to  thee  ! 

And  thou,  lone,  dost  thou  not  (oh,  say  it !) 

Bequeath  soft  messages  for  me, 

Unto  the  dark  boughs  of  the  whispering  pines  ? 

IONE. 

Enough,  enough.     Your  fancy  grows  too  wild  : 
Reason  must  tame  it,  else  some  sharp  reproof. 
And  so  you  love  me  ?     Pshaw  ! 

LYSANDER. 

By  all  the  gods ! 

IONE. 

I'll  not  believe 't :  what !  you  ?  so  young  a  boy  ? 
'Twill  be  a  pretty  tale. 

LYSANDER. 

But  who  shall  tell  it  ? 

IONE. 

Why  I,  and  all  who  hear  us ;  for  we  are 
Encompassed  by  the  sylvan  people  here  ; 
And  not  a  foolish  hope  hast  thou  confessed, 
But  Echo  in  her  hundred  caves  has  caught 


30  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

The  sound,  and  told  it  to  the  wood-nymphs'  ears, 
Whence,  shaped  like  whispers  from  the  forest  boughs, 
(All  which,  true  traitors,  shake  while  they  betray 
Poor  human  secrets,)  thy  mad  words  are  borne 
To  the  great  Pan. 

LYSANDER. 

And  he  ?     Well,  what  of  him  ? 

IONE. 

Oh !  he  loves  all  the  nymphs  who  haunt  his  woods, 
And  when  he  finds  they  wander  from  their  homes 

LYSANDER. 

Fear  him  not ;  I  am  here,  too,  sweet  lone  ! 

IONE. 
My  gentle  boy  !     And  so,  you  love  me,  —  well  ? 

LYSANDER. 

Ay,  like  the  stars. 

IONE. 
Not  as  a  lover 

LYSANDER. 

Oh! 

I  love  you  like  the  beauty  of  the  world, 

The  rose,  the 


LYSANDEK.   AND    IONE.  31 


TONE. 

Peace,  and  hear  me,  young  Lysander. 

Some  maids,  high  born  as  I  am,  in  past  times, 

(Thus,  if  no  fable,  pale  (Enone  did) 

Gave  their  great  hearts  to  mortals.    Mark  what  followed 

The  men  they  graced  forgot  them. 


LYSANDER. 

Shall  I  swear  ? 

IONE. 

What  have  you  done  to  win  a  Nereid's  love  ? 
Dost  know,  youth,  that  the  princes  of  the  sea ; 
Faunus,  and  many  a  wood-god  ;  shapes  that  haunt 
The  groves  and  mountains  and  the  running  streams, 
Have  wooed  me  —  me  —  in  vain  ? 

LYSANDER. 

Oh,  I  believe  it. 

'Tis  certain  they  have  done 't ;  and  I  —  even  I 

Have  left  my  quiet  home  o1  nights,  to  sing 

Your  soft  sad  name  beside  the  noisy  sea, 

And  hearken  if  in  the  watery  tumult  you 

Whispered  sweet  answers.     I  have  come  hither,  too, 

At  noon,  at  dusky  eve,  on  darkest  nights, 

To  seek  you.     I  have  let  my  unguarded  sheep 

Wander  alone  upon  the  mountains  drear, 

Have  left  my  father  (yet  I  love  him  well) 

To  weep  my  nightly  absence  ;  quitted  all 


32  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Our  village  feasts  and  calm  domestic  meetings, 
Here  to  resort  and  dream  of  the  sweet  lone. 

IONE. 
Indeed,  my  love  ? 

LYSANDER. 

Again,  —  for  dear  love's  sake  ! 
For  my  sake  ;  thus  again. 

IONE. 
Why,  then  —  my  love  ! 

LTSANDER. 

Oh  !  my  divine  lone  !  my  heart's  queen  ! 
What  shall  I  do  to  merit  all  this  love  ? 

IONE. 
Be  constant. 

LYSANDER. 

Ay,  beyond  fidelity. 

I'll  be  more  true 

Than  bright  Apollo  to  the  summer  air, 

Than  larks  to  morn,  or  stars  to  cloudless  eves, 

Or  sweets  to  the  maiden  May.     Oh  !  fear  me  not. 

IONE. 

I  will  not,  dear  Lysander.     You  and  I 


LYSANDEE,    AND    IONE.  33 

Will  haunt  these  woods  together :  you  shall  pass 
The  busy  morning  hours  amongst  the  hills, 
And  tend  your  father's  flock ;  I  in  my  cave 
Beneath  the  seas  must  linger  out  the  day ; 
But  ever  at  night  I'll  meet  you,  dear  Lysander, 
And  when  stern  fate  shall  lift  you  to  the  stars, 
I  from  the  salt  sea  wave  will  take  my  flight, 
(Great  Jove  will  not  reject  a  sea-maid's  prayer) 
And  dwell  with  you  for  ever.     Now,  farewell. 

LTSANDER. 

One  kiss  from  that  red  rose  which  hides  your  lip  ! 
One  kiss  ?     O  love  !  how  sweet ;  how  all  too  sweet ! 

IONE. 
Peace,  peace  !     Farewell. 

LTSANDER. 

Until  to-morrow  morn  ! 

IONE. 
Until  to-morrow  only,  then,  farewell ! 


JUAN. 


Like  a  village  nurse 

Stand  I  now  cursing  and  considering,  \vhen 
The  tamest  fool  would  do  —  I  will  be  sudden, 
And  she  shall  know  and  feel,  love  in  extremes 
Abused,  knows  no  degree  of  hate. 

MASSINGKK  —  Duke  of  Milan. 


I  come,  Death !  I  obey  thee, 

Yet  I  will  not  die  raging  :  for,  alas ! 

My  whole  life  was  a  frenzy.  — 

Bury  me  with  Marcelia  ; 

And  let  our  epitaph  be  .... 

The  same. 


JUAN. 

SCENE  —  The  Gardens  belonging  to  a  Spanish  Castle. 

JUAN  and  a  Boy. 

JUAN. 

The  night  grows  foul  and  dark  ;  and  the  thick  air 
Wakes  pulses  at  my  heart,  which  now  should  sleep. 
Hark !  the  winds  draw  the  curtains  of  the  sky, 
Like  ministers  to  lust.     Queen  Dian,  now, 
Is  with  her  paramour. 

BOY. 
Spoke  you,  my  lord  ? 

JUAN. 

They'll  rock  her  into  slumber.     She  should  watch  ; 
For  others  may  be  busy  while  she  sleeps, 
And  stain  her  fame  with  falsehood.     The  hot  air 
Weighs  on  my  forehead.     Break  a  lemon  branch 
And  give,  't  me,  Lopez.     So  ;  how  fresh  !  how  cool ! 
(Tho'  all  its  sweets  are  fled  :)  another  —  Thanks  ! 
I'll  bind  them  round  my  forehead.    What  time  is  't  ? 


38  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

BOY. 

Near  midnight. 

JUAN. 
Wants  it  long  ? 

BOY. 

Some  minutes  ;  the  last  chimes  have  just  now  ceased. 

JUAN. 

They  sounded  sadly.     Let  me  hear  thee  sing 
A  song ;  'twill  drive  some  blacker  thoughts  away. 

BOY. 

What  sort  of  song  ?     Shall  it  be  tender  ?  gay  ? 

JUAN. 

Let  it  be  full  of  love,  and  foaming  o'er ; 

But  not  a  jot  of  kindness  :  burning  passion ; 

No  more  :  yes,  headlong  folly  ;  flames  that  parch 

And  wither  up  the  heart :  fierce  jealousy, 

And  horrid  rage  ;  and  doubt  and  —  dark  despair  ! 

Sing  she  you  loved  was  false,  and  that  you  grew 

Mad,  and  a  murderer  ;  anything. 

BOY. 
My  lord ! 


JUAN.  39 

JUAN. 

Then  you  may  say  how  she 

Was  beautiful  as  Sin,  and  that  her  eyes 

Shone  like  the  morning  ;  that  her  arms  were  smooth, 

And  gracefully  turned,  and  that  her  figure  seemed 

Shaped  from  the  mould  of  Dian's.     You  then  may  tell 

How  her  white  bosom  rose  and  sank,  at  times, 

To  the  music  of  her  passionate  heart.     But,  no  ; 

We'll  have  no  music  now  ;  my  soul's  untuned, 

And  discord  is  the  only  element. 

A  wife  ?  —  When  went  my  wife  hence,  boy  ? 

BOY. 

Sir! 

JUAN. 

Where  is  your  lady,  fool  ? 

BOY. 
At  prayers,  I  think. 

JUAN. 

Excellent,  excellent !  the  times  are  good 
(Must  be)  when  strumpets  pray.     My  bosom  now 
Swells  like  the  boiling  ocean.     How  could  she 
Be  false  to  me  ?  to  me  who  loved  her  more 
Than  heaven  or  hope  hereafter.     How  I  gazed 
Upon  her  brow,  and  thought  it  fairer  than 


40  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

The  face  of  the  starry  heavens !     Begone,  and  send 
Your  mistress  hither. 

BOY. 
She's  at  prayers,  my  lord. 

JUAN. 

Ha  !  true  ;  forgot  !  no  matter  :  leave  me,  sirrah, 
And  place  the  lamp  upon  the  dial  yonder, 
But  draw  the  shade  around  it.     Now,  go,  go. 

[Boy  goes  out. 

Now  then  I  am  —  alone.     There's  not  a  sound 
To  cheer  my  purpose  :  it  is  dark  and  close. 
My  soul  is  dark  ;  imprisoned  in  —  a  grave  ; 
Yet,  resolute  to  bear.     Shall  I  revenge  ? 
I'll  kill  her,  tho'  the  stars  dissolve  in  tears, 
And  thunder  mutters  help  ;  and  so,  all's  past. 
Having  resolved,  the  bloody  part  is  done  ;  — 
And  all  the  rest  is  mercy.     She  must  perish. 
I'll  wash  away  her  sins  with  all  her  blood. 
Yet  —  if  I  slay  her,  I  shall  surely  die. 
Die  ?     I  am  dead  already  ;  jealous  hate, 
Despair,  and  too  much  love  have  poisoned  me. 
Oh,  widow,  who  hast  lost  thine  all  on  earth, 
What  is  thy  pain  to  mine  ?     A  step  ?  —  a  step  ? 
She  comes,  then  :  not  alone  ?   ah  !  not  alone. 
Now  for  my  hiding-place. 

[He  retires. 


JUAN.  41 

OLTMPIA  and  BIANCA  enter. 

OLYMPIA. 

Did  I  believe  in  fables,  I  should  think 

Some  evil  hung  about  me  :  the  black  night 

Has  not  allowed  one  small  star  to  escape, 

To  light  us  on  our  path.     Who's  there  ?     1  thought 

A  figure  passed  us.     Hark ! 

BIANCA. 
I  heard  nothing. 

OLYMPIA. 

Nor  I :  and  yet  when  demons  walk  about, 
Their  steps  'tis  said  are  noiseless.     I  could  now 
Think  half  my  nursery  stories  true,  and  spurn 
My  better  reason  from  me. 

BIANCA. 

Let  us  talk 

Of  something  else,  dear  lady. 

OLYMPIA. 

Tremble  not. 

You  have  no  cause  to  fear  ;  your  days  have  been 

Harmless,  (I  hope  so,)  and  the  spirits  of  ill 

Leave  innocent  life  untouched.     Look,  girl,  the  worm 

Lights  her  green  lamp  ;  and,  see  !  the  fountain,  there, 

Into  the  night  shoots  up  its  silver  rain. 


42  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

How  fresh  and  sweet  it  is  !  how  musical. 

Bianca,  get  you  homewards  ;  I  will  rest 

Here,  in  the  cool  awhile.  .  [BIANCA  exit. 

What  a  most  delicate  air  this  garden  hath ! 

There's  scarce  a  flower  or  odorous  shrub  that  lives 

We  have  not.     There,  how  clearly  1  scent  the  rose  ; 

And  now  the  limes ;  and  now,  as  the  sad  wind 

Sobs,  an  uncertain  sweetness  comes  from  out 

The  orange-trees.     Their  fragrance  charms  me 

Almost  to  sleep. 

[Reclines. 

JUAN  enters. 

JUAN. 

She  sleeps  at  last,  then  :  yet  I  will  not  kill 
The  frail  thing  sleeping.     Why  did  I  delay  ? 
I  feared  (why  did  I  fear  ?)  to  meet  her  eye  ; 
The  eye  of  her  whom  justice  bids  me  strike  ? 
Oh  !  what  a  beautiful  piece  of  sin  is  there  ! 
They  fabled  well  who  said  that  woman  won 
Man  to  perdition.  Hark  !  the  thunder  mutters  ; 
And  lightnings.     Rest,  wild  spirits,  I  am  come 
To  save  ye  a  worthless  task.     Now  then,  my  soul ! 
Rise  up,  Olympia !  (she  sleeps  soundly.)     Ho! 
Stirring  at  last.     Rise,  Fair  Olympia  :  you 
Have  much  to  do  to-night.     The  fates  have  writ 
Your  early  doom  upon  their  brazen  book  ; 
And  I  must  do  their  bidding. 


43 


OLYMPIA. 

What  is  this  ? 

JUAN. 

Now  by  —  but  I  am  quiet.     You  have  sinned 
Most  foully  'gainst  your  husband  :  that's  not  much  ; 
But  you  have  done  a  deed  at  which  the  skies 
Blacken.     Look  up. 

OLTMPIA. 
Dear  Juan  ? 

JUAN. 

You  have  made 

Me  (I  forgive  that)  base  :  our  noble  house, 
'Till  now  illustrious,  you  have  stained.     Hark,  hark  ! 
The  voices  that  you  hear  amongst  the  clouds 
(But  understand  not)  say  '  confess  your  sin.' 
I  wait  to  hear  it. 

OLTMPIA. 

Oh,  your  mind  is  filled 

With  dreaming  terrors.     Let  us  home,  dear  Juan  ; 
We'll  talk  to-morrow  of  this/ 

JUAN. 

Talk  ?  to-morrow  ? 

Now,  by  the  burning  passion  that  doth  stir 
Vengeance  within  me,  Olympia  !  This  night 


44  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

You  take  your  leave  of  earth.     Yet,  ere  you  die, 
I'll  tell  you  how  I  loved  you  ;  doated  —  oh  ! 
Grew  guilty  for  you  :  guilty,  do  you  hear  ? 

OLYMPIA.     ' 

Most  perfect,  sir  ;  I  tremble. 

JUAN. 

Ere  you  married 

I  loved  you  ;  that  you  know  :  your  father  shook 

A  poor  petitioner  away  ;  and  you 

(Although  you  owned  to  love)  forsook  me.     Then 

I  tried  my  fortune  in  the  wars  :  you  gave 

Your  hand  to  old  Ramirez. 

OLYMPIA. 

I  was  bid. 

JUAN. 

My  uncle's  death  raised  me  to  wealth,  and  then 
I  came  home  quickly  :  you  were  married. 

OLYMPIA. 

Well ! 

JUAN. 

Well! 

Why  then  despair  possessed  me.     Madness  stamped 

His  brand  upon  my  brain,  and  years  flamed  on, 


JUAN.  45 


(You  still  Ramirez'  wife,)  when  I  became 
A  man  again.    The  impudent  dotard  laughed, 
Boasting  he  had  out-schemed  a  younger  man, 
Me, — me.     My  curse  upon  him  ! 

OLTMPIA. 
Peace  ;  no  more. 

JUAN. 
So,  you  still  love  him  ? 

OLYMPIA. 

Sir,  I  love  him  not. 

But  I  disdain  the  madman  that  belies  him. 


JUAN. 

Mad?  mad?    Now  shall  you  die,  —  die!  (do  you  hear?) 
By  me,  who  love  you.     Mad  ?     I  have  been  mad  ; 
But  'twas  because  I  lost  you  ;  you,  thrice  false  one ! 
Now,  being  sane,  't  shall  be  my  bloody  care 
To  see  none  rave  like  me  from  too  much  love. 
Mad  ?  mad  ?  and  you  to  jeer  me  ?    Blighting  shame 
Weigh  on  your  soul  for  that. 


OLYMPIA. 

You  have  belied 
My  husband's  honored  name. 


46  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

JUAN. 

His  name  ? 

I  slew  him,  harlot !  stabbed  him  thro'  and  thro1. 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !     Thou  fool,  who  couldst  believe 
That  common  villains  struck  and  robbed  him  not. 

OLYMPIA. 
I  dream  ;  I  hope  I  dream. 

JUAN. 

'Twas  I.     Laugh  out ! 
Yet  if  thou  dost  'twill  be  at  my  great  woe. 
And  though  thou  jeerest  me,  I  deserve  it  not. 
For  all  was  done  for  thee  ;  and  now  hast  thou 
Called  back  the  love  I  bought  at  such  a  price, 
And  sold  it  to  another. 

OLYMPIA. 

Sir,  'tis  false : 

You  are  all  false.     How  I  abhor  you  now ! 
Hearken,  Don  Juan  ;  I  have  loved  you,  (how 
You  will  remember  quickly  ;)  'twas  an  error : 
For  had  I  known  his  blood  was  spilt  by  you, 
I  would  have  cast  you  off,  as  now  I  do, 
For  ever. 

JUAN. 
Speak  again. 


JTIAN.  47 


OLYMPIA. 

For  ever  ;  ever. 


Will  —  will  your  paramour  come  then  ?     Ha,  ha,  ha ! 
He  waits,  and  wishes.    Do  not  keep  him  long. 

OLYMPIA  (aside). 
God !  he  is  mad,  indeed.     I  must  escape. 

JUAN. 

Stay  !  Stop  !  but  weep  not ;  pray  not :  wouldst  thou  pray 
To  the  deaf  adder  ?  to  the  insensate  sea  ? 
Look,  I  am  stern,  but  just ;  determined,  wronged  ; 
A  judge,  and  you  the  victim. 

OLYMPIA. 
Let  me  pass. 

JUAN. 

Kneel  down  before  the  gods.     Now  answer  me. 
Lovest  thou,  or  not,  (speak  truly,  for  thou  speak'st 
Thy  last  words  to  the  world,)  this  stranger  ?     Quick ! 

OLYMPIA. 

I  love  him.     (JUAN  cries  out.)     But 

JUAN. 

Traitress !  adultress ! 

I  strike  (stabs  her)  —  and  kill  my  wrongs  ! 


48  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 


OLYMPIA. 

Stay,  Juan,  stay  !  but  no  ;  'tis  past  —  and  over. 
It  cannot  be  :  —  you've  done  ill. 

JUAN. 

You  —  you  are 
Not  hurt  ?  not  slain  ?     Speak  ! 

OLYMPIA. 

Save  yourself,  dear  Juan. 
That  youth 

JUAN. 

Yes,  yes. 

OLYMPIA. 
He  is  my  brother. 

JUAN. 
Hell! 

OLYMPIA. 

The  Inquisition  now  are  watching  for  him. 
Save  him. 

JUAN. 
I  will. 

OLYMPIA. 

By  — ah- 

[Dies. 


JUAN.  49 

JUAN. 

By  my  lost  soul. 

Look  up,  look  up,  Olympia  !  Juan's  here  ; 

Thy  husband,  —  murderer,  (that's  the  name  :)  My  love  ! 

My  love  !     Olympia !    I  —  she's  dead.  [A  pause. 

How's  this  ? 

So,  where  am  I  ?     Olympia  !    she  is  false. 

Dead  ?     Ah !  some  villain  has  been  busy  here. 

By  heaven,  the  golden  hair  is  wet :  the  eye 

Has  lost  its  tender  meaning.     Life  and  love 

Have  fled  together  —  to  the  grave.    Was 't  I  ? 

Oh !  I  have  cut  those  sweet  blue  veins  asunder, 

And  filled  her  breast  with  blood.    There's  not  a  touch 

Of  color  in  her  lip,  (so  red  once,)  and  her  hand 

Falls  :  it  will  never  press  my  own  again. 

What  a  voice  she  had  !  'tis  silent !     Could  it  die 

In  a  single  groan  ?  Impossible. 

( Voices  are  heard.) 
My  lord ! 

JUAN. 

Hark,  hark !  they  call  the  murderer.  He  is  here. 

(Voices.) 
My  lord,  my  lord  ! 

JUAN. 

Now,  first  to  hide 
4 


50  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

The  body.    Body  !  —  is  she  changed  so  soon  ? 

[Hides  the  body. 

And  now  to  fly  ;  yet  wherefore  ?     Can  they  read 
In  my  white  visage  and  unaltered  eye 
A  murder  redder  than  the  crime  of  Cain  ? 
I'll  stay  and  dream  of  death.     Oh  !  I  have  lost 
What  was  my  life  on  earth  ;  what  was,  alas  ! 
A  horrid  sound.    They  come.  [Enter  Servants. 

Whom  seek  ye  ?     She  — 
Your  lady's  gone  ;  gone,  do  you  doubt  me  ?    Gone. 

SERVANT. 

My  lord  !  a  stranger  has  arrived  ;  her  brother. 

JUAN 
Who?  what?     She  has  none;  none. 

SERVANT. 

My  lord,  he's  at  the  castle. 

JUAN. 

Peace  !     She  is  gone 
On  a  dark  journey.     Oh  ! 

SERVANT. 

You've  cut  your  hand,  sir. 

JUAN. 

I  have  cut — my  heart. 
Leave  me  ;  all  but  Diego.  [Servants  yo  out. 


JUAN.  51 

Poor  old  man, 

You  were  my  father's  servant ;  nay  his  father's. 
We  prized  you,  and  you  served  us  faithfully  ; 
But  now's  your  service  ended.     Old  Diego  ! 
Long  before  sunrise  I  shall  be 

DIEGO. 
My  lord ! 

JUAN. 

Quiet,  Diego.     No  foul  passions,  then, 
No  turbulent  love,  nor  fierce  idolatry, 
Nor  bitter  hate,  nor  jealousy,  shall  mar 
My  solitary  rest.     I  shall  be  —  dead. 
The  last  ('tis  pity)  of  a  princely  house  ; 
Let  not  our  name  be  slandered. 

DIEGO. 
My  dear  lord ! 

JUAN. 

One  old  man  thought 

I  should  do  honor  to  his  name  ;  —  that's  past ; 

For  look !  my  star  is  setting.     I  am  now 

The  last  of  a  famous  line,  which  backward  ran 

To  the  blood  of  kings,  and  then  was  lost  in  time. 

Ah  !  where  is  now  my  father's  prophecy, 

And  where  my  own  hopes  ?     Withered,  withered. 


52  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

DIEGO. 

Alas! 

JUAN. 

A  few  more  words,  and  then  —  and  then,  good  night. 

I  smote  —  I  smote  —  now  let  the  black  skies  fall 

And  crush  me  in  a  moment.     Oh  !  my  queen  ! 

My  own  incomparable  wife  !     My  love  ! 

Oh  !  all  my  life  has  been  an  error.     So, 

I'll  shift  a  troublesome  burden  from  my  back, 

And  lay  me  down  to  sleep. 

DIEGO. 
Beseech  you,  home ! 

JUAN. 

We'll  do  as  thou  dost  say.     That  rich  red  draught, 
Which  filled  the  frames  of  aged  men  with  youth, 
And  strung  their  sinews  like  the  bracing  air, 
Were  now  an  useless  medicine. 

DIEGO. 

Noble  master  ! 

Let  me  for  once  forget  my  place,  dear  lord  ! 

And  bid  you  hope  for  comfort. 

JUAN. 

Hush,  hush,  hush ! 

No  more  a  lord :  a  vulgar  slave  am  I, 


JUAN.  53 

% 

Who  caught  one  look  from  heaven ;  but  the  soft  light 
Is  out,  which  was  my  guide  ;  and  here  I  stand 
Lost,  and  in  terrible  darkness  near  my  tomb. 
And  angry  shadows  beckon  me ;  fierce  shapes 
And  fears  (which  no  hope  tempers)  drag  me  on. 
Look,  I  must  go  :  yet  first  we'll  make  all  plain, 

And  leave  the  earth  a  warning.     I the  story 

Hangs  on  my  tongue.     I  smote  —  I  —  look  aside 
While  I  burst  forth  in  guilt.     I  smote  —  Oh  God ! 
The  tenderest,  noblest  woman  in  the  world  ; 
And  with  my  cruel  dagger  cut  a  road 
To  a  heart  where  I  was  lord ;  but  knew  it  not. 
Ay,  weep,  Diego  ;  thou  may'st  weep,  poor  man ; 
But  for  myself  my  tears  are  dried  to  dust : 
Burnt  and  scorched  up  by  pain.     But  let's  be  still. 
Your  hand,  my  last  firm  friend ;  I  have  not  yet 
Forgotten  how  you  used  (bright  years  ago) 
To  bear  me,  then  a  boy,  sport-tired,  home. 
Bear  me  so  far  once  more  :  'tis  your  last  toil ; 
And  lay  me  gently  on  my  marble  bed, 
And  ask  no  man  to  curse  me  !     All's  done.     Now 
Open  your  arms,  Olympia ! 

[Stabs  himself. 


THE  WAY  TO  CONQUER. 


Hamlet.  I  have  heard 
That  guilty  creatures  sitting  at  a  play 
Have,  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene, 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul,  that  presently 
They  have  proclaimed  their  malefactions. 

Hamlet. 

Lov.  He  gave  him  first  his  breeding; 
Then  showered  his  bounties  on  him  like  the  Hours, 
That,  open-handed,  sit  upon  the  clouds, 
And  press  the  liberality  of  Heaven 
Down  to  the  laps  of  thankful  men. 

BEN  JONSON  —  New  Inn. 


THE   WAY   TO    CONQUER. 


[A  story  distantly  resembling  this  sketch  is  told  of  one  of  the 
Dukes  of  Guise.] 


SCENE — A  Room  in  a  Palace. 

PEINCE.     CESARIO. 

CESARIO. 
Your  highness  sent  for  me  ? 

PRINCE. 

I  did  :  sit  down. 

You  look  ill,  dear  Cesario  ? 

CESARIO. 
No,  my  lord. 

PRINCE. 

You  have  been  feasting  lately  ?     Yes,  'tis  so 
You  were  at  Count  Vitelli's  banqueting. 
But  have  a  tare,  it  is  not  good  for  health. 


58  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

CESARIO. 

You  sent  for  me 

In  haste,  was  it  not  so  ? 

PRINCE. 

Not  so. 

CESARIO. 

Then  shall  I  come  to-morrow  ? 

PRINCE. 

Let  it  be 

To-day,  now  you  are  here.     Cesario ! 

Is  there  not  one  who  lives  with  old  Colonna  ? 

A  foreign  youth  ?     Dost  know  him  ? 

CESARIO. 
Ay,  my  lord, 

'Tis  Pedro  —  no,  Diego,  —  a  dark  Spaniard  ; 
A  linguist,  learned,  and  noble  ;  a  cadet 
Of  the  great  house  of — of  Medina,  sir. 

PRINCE. 
You  know  him  well  ? 

CESARIO. 

I  know  him  ;  yet  not  well. 

PRINCE. 

Should'st  think  him  honest  ? 


THE    WAY    TO    CONQUER.  59 

CESAKIO. 

Honest,  sir  ?     Oh,  surely. 

PRINCE. 

Then  he'd  not  betray 
Your  uncle,  as  I  hear  he  has  done  ? 

CESARIO. 
Sir !     He  ? 

He  could  not  be  so  base  :  my  uncle  was 
His  first  and  excellent  friend. 

PRINCE. 

I  thought  the  world 
Was  not  so  bad.     Now  listen,  Cesario, 
And  you  shall  hear  a  curious  history. 
Keep  Diego  in  your  mind  the  while,  and  think 
That  he's  the  hero  of  it.     Last  night  a  man 
Came  mask'd  unto  a  rich  lord's  house,  (here  in 
Palermo  ;)  — Do  you  hear  how  Etna  mutters  ? 

CESARIO. 
It  sends  a  terrible  sound  indeed,  my  lord. 

PRINCE. 

This  man  petitioned  for  his  life.     He  said 

That  he  had  sworn  to  act  a  horrid  deed, 

And  came  to  make  disclosure.     The  great  lord 


60  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

(His  was  the  life  in  danger)  promised  full 
Forgiveness  :  —  but  you  do  not  hear  my  words  ? 

CESARIO. 
Pardon  me,  sir,  I  hear. 

PRINCE. 

The  culprit  said 

A  youth  on  whom  this  lord  had  lavished  wealth, 

And  kindness  and  good  precept,  had  forgot 

His  better  tutoring,  and  lent  deaf  ears 

To  those  divinest  whispers  which  the  soul 

Breathes  to  prevent  our  erring.     He  resolved 

To  kill  his  benefactor  :  that  was  bad. 

CESARIO. 
Oh !  he  deserved 

PRINCE. 

We'll  talk  of  that  hereafter. 

Well,  this  bad  man  whose  mind  was  spotted  thus 

Was  leprosied  by  foul  ingratitude, 

Had  sworn  to  murder  this  his  friend. 

CESARIO. 
My  lord ! 

PRINCE. 

I  see  it  pains  you  :  yes,  for  the  sake  of  gold, 


THE    WAY    TO    COXQUER.  61 

He  would  have  slain  his  old  and  faithful  friend ; 
Have  spurned  the  few  gray  locks  that  time  had  left, 
And  stopped  the  current  of  his  reverend  blood, 
Which  could  not  flow  much  longer. 

CESARIO. 
Are  you  sure  ? 

PRIXCE. 

The  plan  was  this :  they  were  to  bind  him  fast, 
(To  slay  him  here  were  dangerous,)  and  transport 
His  body  to  some  lonely  place. 

CESARIO. 
What  —  place  ? 

PRINCE. 

I'll  tell  you,  for  I  once 

Was  housed  there  through  a  storm.     A  castle  stands 

Fronting  Calabria,  on  the  rough  sea-coast. 

A  murder  once  was  done  there,  and  e'er  since 

It  has  been  desolate  ;  'tis  bleak,  and  stands 

High  on  a  rock,  whose  base  was  caverned  out 

By  the  wild  seas  ages  ago.     The  winds 

Moan  and  make  music  through  its  halls,  and  there 

The  mountain-loving  eagle  builds  his  home. 

But  all's  a  waste  :  for  miles  and  miles  around 

There's  not  a  dwelling. 


62  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

CESARIO. 

Is 't  near  the  —  eastward  foot 

Of  Etna,  —  where  Muralto's  villa  stands  ? 

PRINCE.  '  . 

Yes,  yes  ;  well  guessed  :  I  see  you  know  the  spot. 
Now,  dear  Cesario,  could'st  thou  think  a  man, 
Setting  aside  all  ties,  could  do  a  deed 
Of  blackness  there  ?     Why,  'tis  within  the  reach 
Of  Etna,  and  some  thirty  years  ago, 
(The  last  eruption,)  when  the  lava  rivers 
Went  flaming  toward  that  point,  this  dwelling  stood 
In  danger.     I  myself  stood  near  the  place, 
And  saw  the  bright  fires  stream  along,  when  they 
Crumbled  the  chestnut  forests  and  dark  pines 
And  branching  oaks  to  dust.     The  thunder  spoke, 
The  rebel  waves  stood  up  and  lashed  the  rocks, 
And  poured  their  stormy  cries  through  every  cave. 
Each  element  rose  in  riot :  the  parched  earth 
Staggered  and  spouted  fire 

CESARIO. 
Oh !  sir,  no  more. 

PRINCE. 

Fancy,  Cesario,  in  this  desolate  house, 
How  ghastly  the  poor  murdered  wretch  would  look  ; 
His  hanging  head,  and  useless  neck  ;  his  old 
Affectionate  heart  that  beat  so  fondly,  now 


THE    WAY    TO    CONQUER.  63 

Like  a  stilled  instrument.     I  could  not  kill 
A  dog  that  loved  me  :  £ould  you  ? 

CESARIO. 
No,  sir  —  no. 

PRINCE. 

Why,  how  you  tremble  ! 

CESARIO. 

'Tis  a  fearful  picture. 

PRINCE. 
Yet  might  it  have  been  true. 

CESARIO. 
We'll  hope  not. 

PRINCE. 

Hope! 

That  hope  is  past.     How  will  the  Spaniard  look, 

Think  you,  Cesario,  when  the  question  comes 

Home  to  his  heart  ?     In  truth  he  could  not  look 

More  pale  than  you  are  now.     Cesario  ! 

The  eye  of  God  has  been  upon  him. 

CESARIO. 

Yes: 

I  hope 


64  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

PRINCE. 

Beware.  m 

CESARIO. 

My  lord! 

PRINCE. 

Beware,  how  you 

Curse  him  ;  for  he  is  loaded  heavily. 

Sin  and  fierce  wishes  plague  him,  and  the  world 

Will  stamp  its  malediction  on  his  head, 

And  God  and  man  disown  him. 

CESARIO. 

Oh !  no  more. 

No  more,  my  dearest  lord ;  behold  me  here, 
Here  at  your  feet,  a  wretch  indeed,  but  now 
Won  quite  from  crime.  Spare  me. 

PRINCE. 

Rise.     I  forgive 

The  ingratitude  to  me :  but  men  like  you 
(Base,  common,  bribed  stabbers)  must  not  roam 
About  the  world  so  freely. 

CESARIO. 

Oh !  that  now 

You  could  but  see  my  heart. 


THE    WAY    TO    CONQUER.  65 

PRINCE. 

I  would  not  see 

Your  bosom's  base  and  black  inhabitant. 

Now  listen  to  me  again  :  speak  not,  but  listen. 

This  is  a  different  tale.     Cesario  ! 

When  first  you  came  to  Sicily,  you  were 

A  little  child  :  your  noble  father,  worn 

By  toil  and  long  misfortune,  scarce  had  time 

To  beg  protection  for  you  ere  he  died. 

Since  then,  if  in  your  memory  I  have  failed 

In  kindness  tow'rd  you,  or  good  counselling, 

Reproach  me. 

CESARIO. 
You  have  been  most  kind  ;  too  kind. 

PRINCE. 

Once,  'twas  in  terrible  sickness,  when  none  else 
Would  tread  your  infectious  chamber,  (think  on  that,) 
I,  though  your  prince 

CESARIO. 

In  pity ! 

PRINCE. 

Hear  me  speak. 

I  gave  that  healing  medicine  to  your  lips, 
Which  wanting  you  had  died.     I  tended  you  : 
And  was  your  nurse  through  many  a  sultry  night ; 

For  you  were  quite  abandoned 

5 


66  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

CESARIO. 

Quite,  quite,  quite. 

PRINCE. 

Time  passed,  and  you  recovered,  and  could  use 
Your  sword  again  :  you  tried  it  'gainst  my  blood, 
(My  nephew  then,)  and  I  forgave  it. 

CESARIO. 

That 

Was  in  the  heat  of  quarrel. 

PRINCE. 

I  have  said 

That  I  forgave  it.     Then  a  most  mean  wish 

(You  wished  my  wealth)  possessed  you.     I  could  never, 

I  own  it,  have  guessed  at  that. 

CESARIO. 
Oh  !  sir,  not  so. 

PRINCE. 

Well,  then,  it  was  not :  but  Aurelia's  charms 

(That  cunning  Phryne)  have  overwhelmed  your  sense  ; 

All  gratitude  and  good  being  gone. 

CESARIO. 
My  lord ! 
My  father  !  oh,  once  more  believe  me.     I 


THE    WAY    TO    CONQUER.  67 

Do  not  deserve  you  should  :  but  if  you  can 

Once  again  credit  me,  may  hell's  fierce  torments  — 

But,  no  ;  I  will  not  pain  or  shame  your  love  : 

Nay  more,  I  will  deserve  it.     I  can  die 

Now,  for  my  mind  has  grown  within  this  hour 

To  firmness  :  yet,  I  now  could  wish  to  live, 

To  show  you  what  I  am. 

PRINCE. 

Cesario !  hear  me. 

Hear  and  forget  not  —  what  your  old  friend  says. 
The  world  will  blame  me,  but  I'll  try  you  still : 
You  cannot  have  the  heart  (I  know  you  have  one) 
Again  to  harm  me.     Once,  imperial  Csesar 
Upon  the  young  deluded  Cinna  laid 
His  absolute  pardon  :  'twas  a  weight  that  he 
Could  ne'er  shake  off.     Cesario,  thus 
From  my  soul  I  now  forgive  you. 

CESARIO . 

Thanks. 

PRINCE. 

What,  ho ! 

Cesario,  faint  not.     Why,  thou'rt  weaker  now 

Than  when  Aurelia  kissed  your  lip,  and  won 

Your  soul  to  sin.     Come  :  —  nay,  there's  no  one  knows 

Our  quarrel.     Let  us  bury  it  in  our  breasts, 

And  talk  as  we  were  wont. 


68  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

CESARIO. 

A  little  time, 

My  lord,  and  I  may  thank  you.     Now,  if  I 
Might  dare  to  ask  it,  I  would  fain  retire, 
And  dwell  on  all  your  goodness. 

PRINCE. 
Farewell,  then. 

CESARIO. 

My  noble  prince,  rest  soundly :  you  have  gained 
Cesario's  soul  twice  over.     If  a  knave 
Should  say  I  wrong  you  now,  believe  him  not. 
If  I  myself  should  swear  I  was  your  foe, 
Discredit  me.     Oh  !  once  more  on  my  knees, 
I  thank  you  :  dearest  father  !  look  upon 
Your  prodigal  son.     Thanks  —  from  my  heart. 

PRINCE. 
Farewell, 

Farewell,  Cesario.     Nay,  compose  yourself. 
Now  go.     Farewell,  farewell. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


Pistol.    Thou  hast  spoke  the  right  ; 
His  heart  is  fracted  and  corroborate. 

Henry  V. 


THE    BROKEN    HEART. 

[This  sketch  is  founded  upon  a  tale  of  Boccaccio.  The  story  is 
this  :  —  Jeronymo  was  sent  from  Italy  to  Paris,  in  order  to 
complete  his  studies.  He  was  detained  there  two  years,  his 
mother  being  fearful  lest  he  should  marry  a  poor  and  beautiful 
girl  (Sylvestra),  with  whom  he  had  been  brought  up  from  his 
infancy.  During  his  absence,  his  mother  contrived  to  have 
Sylvestra  married.  He  returned,  and,  after  wandering  about 
her  dwelling,  succeeded  in  getting  into  her  chamber,  conversed 
with  her  (her  husband  being  asleep),  and,  at  last,  died  on  the 
bed  before  her.] 

SCENE   I.  —  A  Room. 
JERONYMO.     His  MOTHER. 

MOTHER. 

What  have  I  said  that  you  affect  this  humor  ? 
Come,  look  less  strangely.     Is  your  anger  dumb  ? 
Speak  out.     Jeronymo  ? 

JERONYMO. 

You  have  done  this  ? 

MOTHER. 

I  did.    'Twas  for  your  good. 


72  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

JERONYMO. 

Oh,  mother,  mother ! 

You  have  broke  the  fondest  heart  in  Italy. 

My  good,  what's  that  ?     Is't  good  that  I  shall  die  ? 

Is't  good  that  I  shall  pine  and  fade  away, 

And  take  no  comfort  ?     None  ?     O  yes  !     Through  all 

My  melancholy  days  I'll  haunt  the  nest 

Where  my  white  dove  lies  guarded 

MOTHER. 
Patience,  boy. 

JEROXYMO. 

Until  I  die,  stern  mother.     I  shall  die, 
Like  people  smit  by  lightning,  suddenly. 

MOTHER. 

Live  and  be  crowned  with  Love. 

JERONYMO. 

Why  so  I  will, 

And  wear  white  roses  on  my  ghastly  brow, 

And  laugh  at  fate,  like  that  forced  bride  who  fell 

Dead  on  her  marriage  morning.     I'll  be  gone. 

If  she  be  false  —  Come  with  me,  madam  !     False  ? 

Sylvestra  false'?     Sylvestra? 

MOTHER. 
Name  her  not, 


THE    BROKEX    HEART.  73 

The  bitter  cause  whence  all  our  sorrow  springs. 
You  must  not  think  of  her. 

JERONYMO. 

Not  think  of  her  ? 

MOTHER. 

No  ;  she  is  married. 

JERONYMO. 

Ha,  ha,  ha  !  good  mother. 
Shame  on  your  cruel  jest :  be  grave  —  and  gentle. 

MOTHER. 

I  told  you  this  before  :  she's  married  —  married ! 
Do  I  speak  plain. 

JERONYMO. 

Too  plain,  if  you  speak  true. 
That  you  may  know  I  heed  your  tale,  look  at  me  ! 
Am  I  not  —  broken-hearted  ? 

MOTHER. 

Oh !  sweet  heavens. 

I  have  done  too  much.    (Aside)  How  pinched  and  pale 

he  looks ! 
Jeronymo,  my  child  ! 

JERONYMO. 

Your  only  child. 


74  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

MOTHER. 

Why  do  you  talk  thus  ?     Prythee  think  on  me  ; 
On  me,  your  mother. 

JERONYMO. 

Surely  ;  for  you  thought 
Of  me  in  absence.     I've  a  grateful  soul : 
I'll  make  you  heir  of  all  my  father's  lands, 
His  gems,  and  gold,  and  floating  argosies  : 
All  shall  be  yours  ;  I  will  not  live  to  leave 
Widow  or  child  to  rob  so  kind  a  mother. 

MOTHER". 
Peace,  peace,  you  hurt  my  heart. 

JERONYMO. 
I  swear  to  do't. 

By  those  dark  Three  who  cut  the  threads  of  life  ! 
By  Plutus,  God  of  gold  !  By  Minos,  judge, 
And  cruel  Cupid !     By  my  own  lost  life, 
And  murdered  hopes,  I  swear ! 

MOTHER. 

Oh !  Do  'not  talk  thus. 

If  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  father's  sake, 

Spare  me,  my  son  ! 

JERONYMO. 

My  father  ?    He  is  dead. 


THE    BROKEN    HEART.  75 

MOTHER. 

But  when  he  lived  he  was  most  merciful ; 
Tempering  the  angry  feelings  which  will  rise 
In  every  mind  (and  lead  in  some  to  ruin) 
By  draughts  of  that  divine  philosophy 

JERONYMO. 

O,  the  brave  drink !     Abroad,  abroad,  we  had 
Huge  flasks  which  all  went  flaming  to  the  brain. 
Dark,  sweet,  and  full  of  sin  ;  and  so  I  drank, 
And  drank,  and  drank  the  livelong  day  and  night, 
And  chewed  the  bitter  laurel  for  my  food, 
Whose  roots  are  watered,  as  wild  poets  tell, 
By  the  immortal  wells  of  Castaly. 

MOTHER. 
Alas,  alas ! 

JERONYMO. 

Why  that  looks  well.     I  love  it. 

MOTHER. 

What  do  you  love,  my  son  ? 

JERONYMO. 

To  see  you  weep, 

Although  your  husband  died  so  long  ago. 

MOTHER. 

I  do  not  weep  for  him. 


76  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

JERONYMO. 

Not  weep  for  him  ? 

Then  shame  seal  up  your  mouth.     Was  he  not  kind  ? 

Was  he  not  good  ?    He  was  ;  and  yet  you  weep  not : 

Weep  you  the  lazy  lonely  widow's  life  ? 

Tush !  you  may  buy  another,  husband  yet. 

MOTHER. 

I  do  not  wish 't.     I  cannot  match  the  last. 

JERONYMO. 

You  cannot,  madam  ;  (that  was  true  at  least.) 

No,  though  you  gaze  from  evening  dusk,  till  Morn 

Comes  climbing  up  the  bright  steps  of  the  East ; 

Nay,  tho'  you  watch  for  hearts  from  dawn  till  dark. 

Unmatchable  'mongst  men,  so  kind,  so  true, 

Abhorring  falsehood  with  a  natural  hate, 

And  full  of  pity  was  he, —  but  he  died  ; 

Good  father  !  how  he  loved  his  poor  pale  son, 

And  how  he  feared  (do  you  remember  that  ?) 

His  race  should  end  with  me.   He  wished  —  vain  wishes  ! 

No  child  of  mine  shall  ever  bear  our  name, 

And  make  't  more  noble.     Lo,  I  am  the  last ! 

The  last,  last  scion  of  a  gracious  tree ; 

For  you,  my  mother,  now  have  struck  me  down, 

And  withered  all  my  branches.     So,  farewell. 

[  Going. 


THE    BROKEN    HEART.  77 

MOTHER. 

Farewell !     Yet  stay  !     Leave  pardon  with  me.     Stay  ! 

JERONYMO. 

Farewell,  and  pardon  !     Blessings  (if  the  son 
May  bless  the  mother)  rest  upon  your  heart. 
Be  calm,  be  happy.     Think  of  me  no  more. 


78  DRAMATIC    SCEXES. 


SCENE   II.  —  Sy kestrels  Chamber. 

JERONYMO.     SYLVESTKA. 

JERONYMO. 

So,  all  is  hushed  at  last.     Hist !     There  she  lies, 

Who  should  have  been  my  own.     Sylvestra  !     Hark ! 

She  sleeps  !  and  from  her  parted  lips  there  comes 

A  fragrance,  such  as  April  mornings  steal 

From  awakening  flowers.     There  lies  her  arm,  (sweet 

arm !) 

More  white  than  marble,  on  the  quilted  lid. 
'Tis  motionless.     What  if  she  lives  not  ?     Oh  ! 
How  beautiful  she  is  !     How  far  beyond 
Those  bright  creations,  which  the  fabling  Greeks 
Placed  on  their  cold  Olympus.     That  great  queen 
Before  whose  eye  Jove's  starry  armies  shrank 
To  darkness,  and  the  wide  and  billowy  seas 
Grew  calm,  was  a  leper  to  her.     Look,  oh,  look ! 
Her  beauty  (that  most  pure  divinity) 
Doth  sway  the  troubled  blood  till  it  stands  charmed, 
Adoring.  —  Hark,  she  murmurs.     Oh,  how  soft ! 
Sylvestra ! 

SYLVESTRA. 

Ha  !  who's  there  ? 


THE    BROKEN    HEART.  79 

JERONYMO. 

Tis  I. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Who  is  it  ? 

JERONYMO. 

Must  I  then  speak,  and  tell  my  name  to  you  ? 
Sylvestra !  know  me  now  :  not  now  ?  O  Pain  ! 
Hath  grief  indeed  so  changed  my  voice  ;  so  much 
That  you  —  you  know  me  not  ?     Alas  ! 

SYLVESTRA. 

Begone  ! 

I'll  wake  my  husband  if  you  move  a  step. 

JERONYMO. 

Jeronymo,  Jeronymo  !  'tis  I. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Ha  !  speak  again  :  yet,  no,  no 

JERONYMO. 

Hide  your  eyes  : 

Ay,  hide  them,  married  woman  !  lest  they  look 

On  the  wreck  of  him  who  loved  you. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Loved  me  ?  No. 


80  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

JERONYMO. 

Loved  you  like  life,  like  heaven  and  happiness  ; 
Loved  you,  and  wore  your  image  on  his  heart 
(111  boding  amulet)  'till  death. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Alas! 

JERONYMO. 

And  now  I  come  to  bring  your  wandering  thoughts 
Back  to  their  innocent  home.     Do  you  not  know, 
Pale  spirits  have  left  their  leaden  urns,  to  tempt 
Wretches  from  sin  ?     Some  have  been  heard  to  laugh 
Ghastlily  on  —  the  bed  of  wantonness, 
And  touch  the  limbs  with  death. 

SYLVESTRA. 

You  will  not  harm  me  ? 

JERONYMO. 

Why  not  ?  —  No,  no,  poor  girl !     I  would  not  mar 
Your  delicate  limbs  with  outrage.     I  have  loved 
Too  well  for  that ;  too  long  ;  all  our  short  lives. 

m  SYLVESTRA. 

Our  sad  short  lives  ! 

JERONYMO. 

Sylvestra,  you  and  I 


THE    BROKEN    HEART.  81 

Were  children  here  some  few  short  springs  ago, 
And  loved  like  children  :  I  the  elder  ;  you 
The  loveliest  girl  that  ever  tied  her  hair 
Across  a  sunny  brow  of  Italy. 
I  still  remember  how,  though  others  wooed, 
You  ever  preferred  me. 

SYLVESTRA. 
I  did,  I  did. 

JERONYMO. 

I  think  you  loved  me.    How  I  loved,  my  heart 
Still  tells  me  trembling.     So  I  fain  would  bring 
You  comfort  ere  I  go.     Speak !  the  time's  short, 
For  death  has  touched  me. 

SYLVESTRA. 

You  are  jesting  now  ? 

JERONYMO. 

Sweet,  I  am  dying  —  dying.     All  my  blood 
Grows  colder  as  1  talk  ;  my  pulses  strike 
More  slowly  ;  and  before  the  morning  sun 
Visits  your  chamber  through  those  trailing  vines, 
I  shall  lie  here  —  here  in  your  chamber  —  dead. 

SYLVESTRA. 

You  fright  me. 

JERONYMO. 

Yet  I'd  not  do  so,  Sylvestra. 
6 


82  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

1  will  but  tell  you,  you  have  used  me  harshly, 

(That  is  not  much,)  and  die  :  nay,  fear  me  not. 

I  would  not  chill,  with  this  decaying  touch, 

That  bosom  where  the  blue  veins  wander  'round, 

Nor  'should  thy  cheek,  still  fresh  in  beauty,  fade 

From  fear  of  me,  a  poor  heart-broken  wretch  ! 

Look  at  me.     Why,  the  winds  sing  through  my  bones, 

And  children  jeer  me,  and  the  boughs  that  wave 

And  whisper  loosely  in  the  summer  air, 

Shake  their  green  leaves  in  mockery,  as  to  say, 

"  We  are  the  longer  livers." 

SYLYESTRA. 

Kill  me  not. 

JERONYMO. 

I've  numbered  eighteen  winters.     Much  may  lie 
In  that  short  compass ;  but  my  days  have  been 
Not  happy.     Death  was  busy  with  our  house 
Early,  and  nipped  the  comforts  of  my  home, 
And  sickness  paled  my  cheek,  and  fancies  (wild, 
Strange,  bright,  delusive  stars)  came  wandering  by  me. 
There's  one  you  know  of :  that  —  no  matter  —  that 
Drew  me  from  out  my  way,  (a  perilous  guide,) 
And  left  me  sinking.     I  had  gay  hopes  too, 
But  heed  them  not ;  they  are  vanished. 

SYLVESTRA. 

I  — Oh,  heart! 


THE    BROKEN    HEART.  83 

I  thought,  (speak  softly,  for  my  husband  sleeps,) 
I  thought,  when  you  did  stay  abroad  so  long, 
And  never  sent  nor  asked  of  me  or  mine, 
You'd  quite  forgotten  Italy. 

JERONYMO. 
Speak  again. 
Was't  so,  indeed  ? 

SYLVESTRA. 

Indeed,  indeed. 

JEROXYMO. 

I  see  it ; 

The  mother's  pride,  the  woman's  treachery. 
Yet,  what  had  I  done  Fortune  that  she  could 
Abandon  me  so  entirely  ?     Never  mind 't : 
Have  a  good  heart,  Sylvestra :  they  who  hate 
Can  kill  us,  but  no  more  ;  that's  comfort,  dear  ! 
We'll  fly  from  our  pursuers,  and  be  quiet. 
The  journey  is  but  short,  and  we  can  reckon 
On  slumbering  sweetly  with  the  freshest  earth 
Sprinkled  about  us.     There  no  storms  can  shake 
Our  secure  tenement  ;  nor  need  we  fear, 
Though  cruelty  be  busy  with  our  fortunes, 
Or  scandal  with  our  names. 

SYLYESTRA. 

Alas,  alas ! 


84  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

JERONYMO. 

Sweet !  in  the  land  to  come  we'll  feed  on  flowers. 

Droop  not,  my  child.     A  happy  place  there  is  : 

Know  you  it  not  ?   (all  pain  and  wrong  shut  out) 

Where  man  may  mix  with  angels.     You  and  I 

Will  wander  there  with  garlands  on  our  brows, 

And  talk  in  music.     We  will  shed  no  tears, 

Save  those  of  joy  ;  nor  sighs,  unless  for  love. 

Look  up  and  straight  grow  happy.     We  may  love 

There  without  fear  :  no  mothers  there,  no  gold, 

Nor  hate,  nor  human  perfidy  ;  none,  none. 

Sweet  one,  we  have  been  wronged.  fc  My  own  delight ! 

Too  late  I  see  thy  gentle  constancy  : 

Too  late  thy  unstained  love.     Did'st  think  me  changed 

Why  I  wrote,  and  wrote  long,  fond  letters ;  all, 

Steeped  all  in  tears  ;  I  wrote,  but  you  were  silent. 

At  last  suspicion  touched  me.    I  came  home  ; 

And  found  you  married. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Alas! 

JERONYMO. 

Then  I  —  Then  I 

Grew  moody,  and  at  times  I  fear  my  brain 
Was  fevered  ;  but  I  could  not  die,  Sylvestra, 
And  bid  you  no  farewell. 

SYLVESTRA. 

Jeronymo ! 


THE    BROKEX    HEART.  85 

Break  not  my  heart  thus  ;  they  —  I  was  betrayed. 

They  told  me  you  had  found  a  face  more  fair 

Than   poor  Sylvestra's;    that  (grown   false)    you   had 

learned 

To  scorn  your  poor  and  childish  love  ;  ah,  me ! 
They  threatened,  swore  your  heart  was  breaking ;  yes, 
Because  it  wanted  freedom.     Then  —  look  aside  — 
Then  —  then  they  —  married  me. 

JERONYMO. 
Oh!  [Cries  out. 

SYLYE5TRA. 

Whatis't?    Speak! 

JEROXYMO. 

The  melancholy  winds,  which  shun  the  day, 

And  mourn  abroad  at  dark,  are  chanting  now 

A  funeral  dirge  for  me.     Sweet,  let  me  lie 

Once  on  thy  breast :  I  will  not  chill 't,  my  love, 

With  my  cold  cheek  ;  nor  stain  it  with  a  tear. 

It  is  a  shrine  where  innocent  love  might  lie ; 

Where  murdered  love  should  end.  For  once,  Sylvestra  ? 

SYLVESTRA. 

Pity  me ! 

JERONYMO. 

How  I  pity  ! 


86  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

SYLYESTRA. 

Talk  not  thus ; 

Though  you  but  jest,  it  makes  me  tremble. 

JERONYMO. 

Jest  ? 

Look  in  my  eyes,  and  mark  how  true  my  story. 

Nay  look  :  for  on  their  glassy  surface  lies 

Death,  my  Sylvestra.     It  is  Nature's  last 

And  beautiful  effort,  to  bequeath  a  fire 

To  orbs  whereon  the  Spirit  sate  thro'  life, 

And  looked  out  in  its  moods  of  thought  and  joy, 

Revealing  all  that  inward  worth  and  power, 

Which  else  would  want  their  true  interpreters. 

SYLYESTRA. 

Why,  now  you're  cheerful. 

JERONYMO. 

Yes  ;  'tis  thus  I'd  die. 

SYLYESTRA. 

Now  I  must  smile. 

JERONYMO. 

Do  so,  and  I'll  smile  too. 

I  do  ;  albeit  —  ah!  now  my  parting  words 

Lie  heavy  on  my  tongue  ;  my  lips  obey  not ; 

And —  speech  —  comes  difficult  from  me.     While  I  can, 

Farewell.     Your  hand  !  I  cannot  see  it. 


THE    BROKEN    HEART.  87 

STLVESTRA. 

Ah!  — cold. 

JERONYMO. 

'Tis  so  :  but  scorn  it  not,  my  own  poor  girl. 
They've  used  us  hardly  —  hardly ;  yet  thou  wilt 
Forgive  them  ?     One's  a  mother,  and  may  feel, 
When  that  she  knows  me  dead.     Some  air ;  more  air : 
Where  are  you  ?    I  am  blind  ;  my  hands  are  numbed  : 
This  is  a  wintry  night.     So,  —  cover  me. 

[Dies. 


THE   FALCON. 


"  Frederigo,  of  the  Alberighi  family,  loved  a  gentlewoman,  and 
was  not  requited  with  like  love  again.  But,  by  bountiful  expenses 
and  over-liberal  invitations,  he  wasted  all  his  lands  and  goods, 
having  nothing  left  him  but  a  hawk  or  faulcon.  His  unkind  mis 
tress  happened  to  come  to  visit  him,  and  he  not  having  any  other 
food  for  her  dinner,  made  a  dainty  dish  of  his  faulcon  for  her  to 
feed  on.  Being  conquered  by  this  exceeding  kind  courtesie,  she 
changed  her  former  hatred  towards  him,  accepting  him  as  her 
husband  in  marriage,  and  made  him  a  man  of  wealthy  posses 
sions."  —  Boccaccio.  (Old  translation.)  Fifth  day  :  Novel  9. 


THE    FALCON. 

SCENE   I.  —  Outside  of  a  Cottage.     Sunset. 

FREDERIGO  (alone). 

Oh !  Poverty,  and  have  I  learnt  at  last 

Thy  bitter  lesson  ?     Thou  forbidding  power 

That  hast  such  sway  upon  this  thriving  earth, 

Stern  foe  to  comfort,  sleep's  disquieter ; 

What  have  I  done  that  thou  should'st  smite  me  thus  ? 

An  open  hand  had  I  in  happier  times, 

And  when  the  feathered  Fortune  bore  me  high, 

I  scattered  gifts  below. 

'Tis  the  set  of  Sun  ! 

How  like  a  hero  who  hath  run  his  course 

In  glory  doth  he  die  !     His  parting  look 

(Too  beautiful  for  death)  lights  up  the  west 

With  crimson,  and  deep  dyes  the  wandering  clouds 

With  every  tint  that  makes  the  rainbow  fair. 

Bright  King !  not  unattended  dost  thou  leave 

The  world  that  loved  thee.     Earth,  and  all  her  crowds, 

Which  late  were  joyous,  pay  dumb  homage  now  ; 

Unutterable  stillness,  golden  calm, 

The  winds  and  waves  unmoving. 


92  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Sometimes  one  lonely  note  is  heard,  which  marks 
And  makes  more  rich  the  silence  ;  nothing  more  ! 
Thus,  in  great  cities,  the  cathedral  clock, 
Lifting  its  iron  tongue,  doth  seem  to  stay 
Time  for  a  moment,  while  it  warns  the  world, 
(Sweet  sound  to  those  who  wake,  or  watch  till  morn,) 
"  Now  goes  the  midnight."     Then  I  love  to  walk 
And  hear  that  hoarse  slow-fading  clang  grow  sweet, 
As  upwards  to  the  stars  and  mighty  moon 
It  bears  calm  tidings  from  this  dreaming  globe. 
Ah !  why  may  not  the  poor  man  ever  dream ! 
A  step  ?    Who's  there  ?    A  lady  ?    O,  Giana  ! 

GIANA  and  her  MAID  enter. 

GIANA. 
You  have  cause  to  be  surprised,  sir. 

FREDERIGO. 

No,  dear  lady ; 

Honored  I  own,  that  my  poor  dwelling  should 

Receive  so  fair  a  guest. 

GIANA. 

You  have  forgotten 
The  past  times  then  ? 

FREDERIGO. 

No,  no  ;  those  sweet  times  live, 

Flowers  in  my  faithful  memory,  kept  apart 


THE    FALCOX.  93 

For  holier  hours,  and  sheltered  from  the  gaze 
Of  rude  uncivil  strangers ;  they  are  now 
My  only  comfort ;  so  lest  they  should  fade 
I  use  'em  gently,  very  gently,  madam, 
And  water  'em  all  with  tears. 

GIANA. 

Your  poverty 

Has  made  you  gloomy,  Signior  Frederigo. 

FREDERIGO. 

Pardon  me,  madam  :  'twas  not  well,  indeed, 

To  meet  such  a  guest  with  sorrow :  you  were  born 

For  happiness. 

GIANA. 
Alas !  I  fear  not  so. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh !  yes,  yes  :  and  you  well  become  it ;  well. 
May  grief  ne'er  trouble  you,  nor  heavier  hours 
Weigh  on  so  light  a  heart. 

GIANA 

You  well  reprove  me  ; 
Light  and  unfeeling. 

FREDERIGO. 

Yet  I  meant  not  so. 

Giana !  let  me  sink  beneath  your  scorn 


94  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

If  ever  I  reproach  you  :  what  am  I, 
Outcast  from  Fortune,  all  my  father's  gifts 
Lavished  and  lost  by  folly 

GIANA. 

'Twas  for  me. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh !  no,  no  :  I  had  many  faults 
Whose  burthen  rests  with  me  :  then  what  am  I, 
That  I  should  dare  reproach  you  ?     As  I  am, 
Know  me  your  truest  servant ;  only  that ; 
And  bound  to  live  and  die  for  you. 

GIANA. 
No  more. 
Let  us  enjoy  the  present. 

MAID. 

My  lady,  sir, 
Is  come  to  feast  with  you. 

GIANA. 
'Tis  even  so. 

FREDERIGO. 

I  am  too  honored.     Can  you  then  put  up 

With  my  (so  poor  a)  welcoming  ?     If  the  heart 

Could  spend  its  wealth  in  entertainment,  I 


THE    FALCON.  95 

Would  feast  you  like  a  queen :  but,  as  it  is, 
You  will  interpret  kindly  ? 

GIANA. 

Oh!  I  know 

I  come  to  a  scholar's  table.     Now  we'll  go, 
And  rest  us  in  your  orchard  for  a  while. 
The  evening  breezes  will  be  pleasant  there. 
For  a  short  time,  farewell. 

FREDERIGO. 

Farewell,  dear  madam : 

I  hope  you'll  find  there  some  —  ah  !  'ware  the  step. 

GIANA. 

'Tis  but  an  awkward  entrance,  sir,  indeed. 

FREDERIGO. 

You'll  find  some  books  in  the  arbor,  where  you  rest. 
They  are  books  of  poetry.     If  I  remember, 
You  loved  such  stories  once,  thinking  they  brought 
Man  to  a  true  and  fine  humanity. 

GIANA. 

You've  a  good  memory,  signior.     That  must  be  — 
Stay,  let  me  count :  ay,  some  six  years  ago. 

FREDERIGO. 

About  the  time. 


96  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

GIANA. 

You  were  thought  heir,  I  think, 

Then,  to  the  Count  Filippo  :  you  displeased  him  : 

How  was 't  ? 

FEEDER  IGO. 

Oh  !  some  mere  trifle.     I  forget. 

GIANA. 
Nay,  tell  me  ;  for  some  said  you  were  ungrateful. 

FREDERIGO. 

I  could  not  marry  to  his  wish. 

GIANA. 

Was  it  so  ? 

FREDERIGO. 

Thus  simply  :  nothing  more,  believe  it. 

GIANA. 

I  did  not  know  it.     Not  marry  to  his  wish ! 


FREDERIGO. 

She  comes  to  dine  ;  to  dine  with  me,  who  am 
A  beggar.     Now,  what  shall  I  do  to  give 
This  idol  entertainment  ?     Not  a  coin  ! 


[Exit. 


THE    FALCON.  97 

Not  one,  by  Heav'n,  and  not  a  friend  to  lend 

The  .veriest  trifle  to  a  wretch  like  me. 

And  she  has  descended  from  her  pride  too  —  no  ; 

No,  no  ;  she  had  no  pride.     Now  if  I  give 

Excusings,  she  will  think  I'm  poor  indeed, 

And  say  misfortune  starved  the  spirit  hence 

Of  an  Italian  gentleman.     No  more  : 

She  must  be  feasted.     Ha !  no,  no,  no,  no, 

Not  that  way.     Any  way  but  that.     Bianca  ! 

Enter  BIANCA. 
This  lady  comes  to  feast. 

BIANCA. 

On  what,  sir  ?     There 

Is  scarce  a  morsel :  fruit  perhaps 

FREDERIC  0. 

Then  I 

Must  take  my  gun  and  stop  a  meal  i'  the  air. 

BIANCA. 

Impossible.     Old  Mars,  you  know, 
Frights  every  bird  away. 

FREDERIGO. 

Ah  !  villain,  he 

Shall  die  for't ;  bring  him  hither. 

7 


98  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

BIANCA. 

Sir  ?    What  can  you  mean  ? 
Our  falcon  ? 

FREDERIC  0. 

Ay,  that  murderous  kite.     How  oft 

Hath  he  slain  innocent  birds  :  now  he  shall  die. 

'Tis  fit  he  should,  if  'twere  but  in  requital; 

And  he  for  once  shall  do  me  service.     Quick  ! 

I'll  wring  his  cruel  head,  and  feast  my  queen 

Worthily. 

BIANCA. 

He  is  here,  sir. 

FREDERIGO. 

Where  ?  vile  bird  ! 

There  —  I'll  not  look  at  him. 

BIANCA. 

Alas  !  he's  dead  : 

Look,  look !  ah  !  how  he  shivers. 

FREDERIGO. 

Fool !     Begone ! 

Fool !  am  not  I  a  fool  —  a  selfish  slave  ? 

I  am,  I  am.     One  look.     Ah  !  there  he  lies. 

By  Heav'n  he  looks  reproachingly  ;  and  yet 

I  loved  thee,  poor  bird,  when  I  slew  thee.     Hence  ! 

f BIANCA  exit. 


THE    FALCON".  99 

Mars !  my  brave  bird,  and  have  I  killed  thee,  then, 

Who  was  the  truest  servant  —  loved  me  so, 

When  all  the  world  had  left  me  ?     Never  more 

Shall  thou  and  I  in  mimic  battle  play, 

Nor  thou  pretend  to  die,  (to  die,  alas !) 

And  with  thy  quaint  and  grave-eyed  tricks  delight 

Thy  master  in  his  solitude.     No  more, 

No  more,  old  Mars  !  (thou  wast  the  god  of  birds,) 

Shalt  thou  rise  fiercely  on  thy  plumed  wing, 

And  hunt  the  air  for  plunder  :  thou  couldst  ride 

(None  better)  on  the  fierce  wild  mountain  winds 

When  birds  of  lesser  courage  drooped.     I've  seen 

Thee  scare  the  plundering  eagle  on  his  way, 

(For  all  the  wild  tribes  of  these  circling  woods 

Knew  thee  and  shunned  thy  course,)  and  thro'  the  air 

Float  like  a  hovering  tempest,  feared  by  all. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  bring  the  wild  swan  down, 

For  me,  thy  cruel  master  ;  ay,  and  stop 

All  wanderers  of  the  middle  air,  for  me, 

Who  killed  thee  —  murdered  thee,  poor  bird  ;  for  thou 

Wast  worthy  of  humanity,  and  I 

Feel  with  these  shaking  hands,  as  I  had  done 

A  crime  against  my  race. 


100  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 


SCENE   II.  —  A  Room. 
FKEDERIGO.     GIANA. 

GIANA. 

You  think  it  strange  that  I  should  visit  you  ? 

FREDERIGO. 

No,  madam,  no. 

GIANA. 

You  must ;  ev'n  I  myself 

Must  own  the  visit  strange.    It  is  most  strange. 

FREDERIGO. 

I  am  most  grateful  for  it. 

GIANA. 

Hear  me,  first. 

What  think  you  brought  me  hither  ?     I've  a  suit 

That  presses,  and  I  look  to  you  to  grant  it. 

FREDERIGO. 

'Tis  but  to  name  it,  for  you  may  command 


THE    FALCON".  101 

My  life,  my  service.     Oh !  but  you  know  this  : 
You  injure  when  you  doubt. 

GIANA. 

I  do  not  doubt. 

Now  for  my  errand.     Gentle  signior,  listen  : 
I  have  a  child  ;  no  mother  ever  loved 
A  son  so  much  :  but  that  you  know  him,  I 
Would  say  how  delicate  he  was,  how  good. 
But  oh  !  I  need  not  tell  his  sweet  ways  to  you  : 
You  know  them,  signior,  and  your  heart  would  grieve, 
(I  feel't,)  if  you  should  see  the  poor  child  die ; 
And  now  he's  pale  and  ill.     If  you  could  hear 
How  he  asks  after  you,  and  says  he  loves  you 
Next  to  his  mother. 

FREDERIGO. 

Madam,  stay  your  tears. 

Can  I  do  aught  to  soothe  your  pretty  boy  ? 

I  love  him  as  my  own. 

GIANA. 
Sir! 

FREDERIGO. 

I  forget. 

And  yet  I  love  him,  lady  :  am  I  too  bold  ? 

GIANA. 

Oh,  no.     I  thank  you  for  your  love. 


102  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

FREDERIGO. 

Giana ! 

GIANA. 

To  my  poor  child :  he  pines  and  wastes  away. 
One  thing  alone  in  all  the  world  he  sighs  for ; 
And  that  —  I  cannot  name  it. 

FREDERIGO. 

Is  it  mine  ? 

GIANA. 

It  is,  it  is  :  I  shame  to  ask 't. 

FREDERIGO. 

'Tis  yours  ; 

Were  it  my  life.     What  have  I,  and  not  yoyrs  ? 

GIANA. 

It  is  —  the  falcon. 

Ah,  pardon  me.     I  see  how  you  love  the  bird. 

FREDERIGO. 

I  loved  him,  —  yes. 

GIANA. 

I  feel  my  folly,  sir. 

You  shall  not  part  with  your  poor  faithful  bird  : 


THE    FALCON.  103 

I  had  no  right  (I  least  of  all)  to  ask  it. 
I  will  not  rob  you,  sir. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh !    that  you  could  ! 

Poor  Mars !     Your  child,  madam,  will  grieve  to  hear 

His  poor  old  friend  is  dead. 

GIANA. 
Impossible. 
I  met  him  as  I  entered. 

FREDERIGO. 

He  is  dead. 

GIANA. 

Nay,  this  is  not  like  you.     Why  not  refuse  ? 
I  do  not  need  excuses. 

FREDERIGO. 

Gracious  lady, 

Believe  me  not  so  poor :  the  bird  is  dead. 

Listen  :  you  came  to  visit  me  —  to  feast : 

It  was  my  barest  hour  of  poverty  : 

I  had  not  one  poor  coin  to  purchase  food. 

Could  I  for  shame  confess  this  to  you  ?  —  you  1 

I  saw  the  descending  beauty  whom  I  loved 

Honoring  my  threshold  with  her  step,  and  deign 

To  smile  on  one  whom  all  the  world  forgot. 

Once  I  had  been  her  lover,  (how  sincere 


104  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Let  me  not  say :)  my  name  was  high  and  princely  : 
My  nature  had  not  fallen.      Could  I  stoop 
And  say  how  low  and  abject  was  my  fortune  ? 
And  send  you  fasting  home  ?     Your  servant  there 
Would  have  scorned  me.     Lady,  even  then  I  swore 
That  I  would  feast  you  daintily  :  —  I  did. 
My  noble  Mars,  thou  wast  a  glorious  dish 
Which  Juno  might  have  tasted. 

GIANA. 

What  is  this  ? 
We  feasted  on  your  noble  bird  ?     Good  bird  ! 

FREDERIGO. 

He  has  redeemed  my  credit. 

GIANA  (after  a  pause). 

You  have  done 

A  princely  thing,  Frederigo.     If  [  e'er 
Forget  it,  may  I  not  know  happiness. 
Signior,  you  have  a  noble  delicate  mind, 
A  heart  such  as  in  hours  of  pain  or  peril 
Methinks  I  could  repose  on. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh!  Giana! 

GIANA. 

I  have  a  child  who  loves  you.     For  his  mother 


THE    FALCON. 


105 


You've  wrought  a  way  into  her  inmost  heart. 
Can  she  requite  you  ? 

FREDERIGO. 

How  !  what  mean  you  ?  —  Madam  ! 

Giana,  sweet  Giana,  do  not  raise 

My  wretched  heart  so  high  ;  too  high  :  do  not  — 

'Twill  break  on  falling. 

GIANA. 

But  it  shall  not  fall, 
If  I  can  prop  it,  or  my  hand  repay 
Your  many  gifts,  your  long  fidelity. 
I  come,  Frederigo,  not  as  young  girls  do, 
To  blush  and  prettily  affect  to  doubt 
The  heart  I  know  to  be  my  own.     I  feel 
That  you  have  loved  me  well.     Forgive  me,  now, 
That  circumstance  (which  some  day  I'll  make  known) 
Kept  me  aloof.     My  nature  is  not  hard, 
Altho'  it  seemed  thus  to  you. 


FREDERIGO. 


What  can  I  say  ? 


GIANA. 

Nothing.     I  read  your  heart. 

FREDERIGO. 

It  bursts,  my  love  :  but  'tis  with  joy,  with  joy. 


106  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Giana !  my  Giana !  are  you  mine  ? 

Speak,  lest  I  fear  I  dream.     We  —  we  will  have 

Nothing  but  halcyon  days.     Oh  !  we  will  live 

As  happily  as  the  bees  that  hive  their  sweets, 

As  gaily  as  the  summer  fly,  but  wiser  : 

I'll  be  thy  servant  ever.     I  will  be 

The  sun  o'  thy  life,  faithful  through  every  season, 

And  thou  shalt  be  my  flower  perennial, 

My  bud  of  beauty,  my  imperial  rose, 

My  passion-flower,  and  I  will  wear  thee  here, 

Here  on  my  heart,  and  thou  shalt  never  fade. 

I'll  love  thee  mightily,  my  queen,  and  in 

The  sultry  hours  I'll  sing  thee  to  thy  rest 

With  music  sweeter  than  the  wild  wind's  song  : 

And  I  will  swear  thine  eyes  are  like  the  stars, 

Thyself  beyond  the  nymphs  who,  poets  feigned, 

Dwelt  long  ago  in  woods  of  Arcady. 

My  gentle  deity  !  I'll  crown  thee  with 

The  whitest  lilies,  and  then  bow  me  down 

Love's  own  idolater,  and  worship  thee. 

And  thou  wilt  then  be  mine,  my  beautiful  ? 

How  fondly  will  we  love  through  life  together  ; 

And  wander  heart-linked,  thro'  the  busy  world 

Like  birds  in  eastern  story. 

GIANA. 

Oh !  you  rave. 

FREDERIGO. 

I'll  be  a  miser  of  thee  ;  watch  thee  ever  ; 


THE    FALCON.  107 

At  morn,  at  noon,  at  eve,  and  all  the  night. 
We  will  have  clocks  that  with  their  silver  chime 
Shall  measure  out  the  moments  :  and  I'll  mark 
The  time,  and  keep  love's  endless  calendar. 
To-day  I'll  note  a  smile  :  to-morrow  how 
Your  bright  eyes  spoke  —  how  saucily  ;  and  then 
Record  a  kiss  plucked  from  your  currant  lip, 
And  say  how  long  'twas  taking  :  then,  thy  voice, 
As  rich  as  stringed  harp  swept  by  the  winds 
In  autumn,  gentle  as  the  touch  that  falls 
On  serenader's  moonlit  instrument  — 
Nothing  shall  pass  unheeded.     Thou  shalt  be 
My  household  goddess  ;  nay  smile  not,  nor  shake 
Backwards  thy  clustering  curls,  incredulous : 
I  swear  it  shall  be  so  :  it  shall,  my  love. 

GIANA. 

Why,  now  thou'rt  mad  indeed  :  mad. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh !  not  so. 

There  was  a  tender  sculptor  once  who  loved 

And  worshipped  the  white  marble  which  he  shaped, 

Till,  as  the  story  goes,  the  Cyprus'  queen, 

Or  some  such  fine  kind-hearted  deity, 

Touched  the  pale  stone  with  life,  and  it  became 

Pygmalion's  bride  :  but  thee  —  on  whom 

Nature  had  lavished  all  her  wealth  before, 

Now  love  has  touched  with  beauty  :  doubly  fit 


108  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

For  human  worship  thou,  thou  —  let  me  pause  ; 
My  breath  is  gone. 

GIANA. 

With  talking ! 

FREDERIGO. 

With  delight. 

But  I  may  worship  thee  in  silence,  still. 

GIANA. 

The  night  is  come  ;  and  I  must  go  ;  farewell ! 
Until  to-morrow. 

FREDERIGO. 

Oh  !  not  yet,  not  yet. 

Behold !  the  moon  is  up,  the  bright-eyed  moon, 
And  sheds  her  soft  delicious  light  on  us, 
True  lovers  re-united.     Why  she  smiles, 
And  bids  you  tarry.     Will  you  disobey 
The  Lady  of  the  Sky  ? 

GIANA. 

Nay,  I  must  go. 

FREDERIGO. 

Then  we  will  go  together. 


THE    FALCON.  109 


GIANA. 


Not  to-night. 

My  servants  wait  my  coming  ;  not  far  off. 


FREDERIGO. 


A  few  more  words,  and  then  I'll  part  with  thee, 

For  one  long  night :  to-morrow  bid  me  come, 

(Thou  hast  already  with  thine  eyes,)  and  bring 

My  load  of  love  and  lay  it  at  thy  feet. 

—  Oh  !  ever  while  those  floating  orbs  are  bright 

Shalt  thou  to  me  be  a  sweet  guiding  light. 

Once,  the  Chaldean  from  his  topmost  tower 

Did  watch  the  stars,  and  then  assert  their  power 

Throughout  the  world  :  so,  dear  Giana,  I 

Will  vindicate  my  own  idolatry  : 

And  in  the  beauty  and  the  spell  that  lies 

In  the  sweet  meanings  of  thy  love-lit  eyes ; 

In  thy  neck's  purple  veins,  which  downward  glide, 

Till  in  the  white  depths  of  thy  breast  they  hide  ; 

In  thy  clear  open  forehead  ;  in  thy  hair 

Heaped  in  rich  tresses  on  thy  shoulders  fair ; 

In  thy  calm  dignity  ;  thy  modest  sense  ; 

In  thy  most  soft  and  winning  eloquence  ; 

In  woman's  gentleness  and  love,  (now  bent 

On  me,  so  poor,)  shall  lie  my  argument. 


110  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 


NOTE The  following  Song  was  published  in  the  same  year  as 

the  foregoing  Scene  of  "The  Falcon." 

THE    LAST    SONG. 

MUST  it  be  ? Then  farewell, 

Thou  whom  my  woman's  heart  cherished  so  long ! 

Farewell ;  and  be  this  song 

The  last,  wherein  I  say,  "  I  loved  thee  well." 

Many  a  weary  strain 

(Never  yet  heard  by  thee)  hath  this  poor  breath 

Uttered,  of  Love  and  Death, 

And  maiden  Grief,  hidden  and  chid  in  vain. 

Oh !  if  in  after  years 

The  tale  that  I  am  dead  shall  touch  thy  heart, 

Bid  not  the  pain  depart ; 

But  shed,  over  my  grave,  a  few  sad  tears. 

Think  of  me,  —  still  so  young, 

Silent,  tho'  fond,  who  cast  my  life  away, 

Daring  to  disobey 

The  passionate  Spirit  that  round  me  clung. 

Farewell  again  !   and  yet 

Must  it  indeed  be  so  ?  and  on  this  shore 

Shall  thou  and  I  no  more 

Together  see  the  sun  of  the  Summer  set  ? 


THE    LAST    SONG.  Ill 

For  me,  my  days  are  gone  : 

No  more  shall  t,  in  vintage  times,  prepare 

Chaplets  to  bind  my  hair, 

As  I  was  wont.     (Ah,  'twas  for  thee  alone.) 

But  on  my  bier  I'll  lay 

Me  down  in  frozen  beauty,  pale  and  wan, 

Martyr  of  love  to  man  ; 

And,  like  a  broken  flower,  gently  decay. 


tlj? 


PANDEMONIUM. 


PANDEMONIUM. 

SCENE  —  PANDEMONIUM.  A  vast  Hall,  dimly  lighted, 
is  seen ;  in  the  distance  a  river  of  fire.  A  throne 
and  seats  around  are  vacant.  A  hand  of  Spirits  is 
heard  in  the  air. 

CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS. 

SPIRITS  !  Angels  !  Cherubim ! 
Kings,  and  Stars,  and  Seraphim  ! 
Armies,  and  battalions,  —  driven 
Headlong  from  the  azure  Heaven, 
By  the  keen  and  blasting  light, 
And  the  racking  thunder-blight, 
And  the  terror  of  The  Ban, 
Come  !  unto  our  great  Divan  ! 

[Hosts  of  Spirits  descend  and  rise  from  different 
quarters.  MOLOCH  descends  suddenly  and  takes 
his  station.  CHORUS  resumes. 

Come  !     He  comes  ;  the  crimson  king, 
On  his  broad  wide- wandering  wing ; 
As  a  comet,  fierce  and  bright, 
Rushes  through  a  moonless  night. 

[BELIAL  descends  swiftly  upon  his  throne. 


118  DKAMATIC    SCENES. 

He  is  come,  the  angel  brother, 
Fairer,  and  yet  like  the  other, 
As  the  thought  is  like  the  deed  ; 
Swift,  but  with  unerring  speed. 

[ABADDON  descends. 

And  a  third,  (amongst  a  choir 
Of  thunders,)  the  sublime  Destroyer ! 
Who  from  blood  did  take  his  birth, 
And  built  his  fame  upon  the  earth, 
Higher  than  the  victor's  glory, 
Death-propped  and  made  false  in  story. 

[MAMMON  descends  slowly. 

SPIRITS. 

Who  is  this,  —  a  flaming  error, 
Without  speed  or  sign  of  terror, 
Covered  by  his  golden  robe  ? 


He  is  king  of  all  the  globe  ; 
Master  of  the  earthen  deeps, 
Wliere  the  blind  bright  treasure  sleeps ; 
Crowned  lord  of  courts  and  bowers, 
Dicers'  hearts,  and  women's  hours. 

[A  host  of  Spirits  is  heard  rushing  forwards. 
Come  !  —  They  come.     The  air  is  heavy 
With  the  iron-banded  levy. 
Every  wind  is  loaded  well 
With  the  rank  and  wealth  of  Hell ; 


PANDEMONIUM.  119 

And  the  fiery  river  dashes, 
Bounding  into  double  light, 
As  one  by  one  a  Spirit  flashes 
On  the  cloud-encumbered  night. 

[The  light  increases  :  large  flowers  are  seen 
syringing  up. 

And,  lo  !  the  vast  blood-grained  flowers 
Unfold  wide  their  broad  pavilions ; 
And  the  night-expanding  Dreams, 
And  the  star-awakened  millions 
Clothe  them  in  fresh  powers, 
And  rush  to  the  dawning  beams. 

SPIRITS. 

Come,  O  come  !     In  this  blighted  air, 
The  children  of  ruin  and  sin  are  fair : 
We  shout  and  we  play, 
For  Death  is  away, 
Making  on  earth  a  dark  holiday. 
,O  King  of  the  Night ! 
Where  sleeps  thy  scorn  ? 
Where  tarries  thy  light, 
O  Prince  of  Morn  ?  — 
Come  !     O  come  ! 

[The  approach  of  SATAN  is  seen  afar  off. 

Come !  —  He  comes,  he  comes,  he  comes  ! 
Strike  the  tempest  from  the  drums ! 


120  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Scatter  music  upon  the  air ! 
Drown  the  dissonant  tongues  of  care  ! 
Bid  the  raging  trumpets  blow  ! 
Let  the  crimson  liquor  flow  ! 
Bid  the  Bacchanals  shriek  and  cry, 
'Till  the  maddened  Echoes  fly 
Round  and  round  the  mighty  halls, 
'Till  the  sound  to  silence  falls  ! 

[He  is  distinguished  nearer 

Come  !  —  He  comes,  the  king  of  kings  ! 
On  his  bright  angelic  wings, 
Which  have  swept  through  space  and  night, 
Swifter  than  the  arrow's  flight, 
Thorough  Chaos  and  its  dark  stream, 
As  a  thought  doth  pierce  a  dream. 

[SATAN  descends  upon  his  throne,  which  expands. 

GENERAL   CHORUS   OF   SPIRITS. 

Hail,  all  hail !  —  Thy  brethren  bowed, 
Welcome  thee  from  flame  and  cloud  ; 
Spirits  of  the  wind  and  thunder, 
(Who  have  lain  in  sullen  wonder 
Ever  since  the  great  Dismay,) 
Stand  up  again  in  strong  array ; 
Eagle  spirits  who  face  the  Sun  ; 
Gods,  whose  glittering  deeds  are  done 
On  the  crumbling  edge  of  ruin, 
When  the  muttering  Storm  is  wooing 


PANDEMONIUM.  121 

(With  love-threats  upon  his  lips) 
Earthquake,  and  the  coy  eclipse. 
Hail !  Hail !  Hail !  —  We  bring 
Great  welcome  to  our  exile  king  ! 

SATAN. 

Spirits,  for  this  large  welcome  thanks  as  large ! 

Hail  all !  —  Since  last  we  met  1  have  been  wandering, 

Through  stars  and  worlds,  to  the  barred  doors  of  Heaven ; 

And  thence  have  sailed  round  the  huge  globes  which  lie 

Lazily  rolling  in  the  twilight  air, 

And  done  ye  service.     On  one  (a  belted  world) 

i  alit,  and  faced  great  statures  like  ourselves ; 

On  one  a  race  of  madmen  ;  on  another 

Women  to  whom  the  planets  came  down  at  night. 

All  shapes  I  looked  on ;  souls  of  every  tinge, 

From  black  ambition  down  to  pallid  hope. 

Some  worshipped  the  white  moon,  and  some  the  sun, 

Some  stars,  some  darkness,  and  a  host  —  themselves  ! 

Some  bowed  before  Abaddon's  glory :  some 

Called  on  our  Moloch  here,  and  drank  hot  blood  : 

Others  to  princely  Mammon  knelt,  and  watched 

His  golden  likeness  ;  while*  our  Belial  (shaped 

Like  Venus  or  libidinous  Bacchus)  reigned 

Omnipotent  as  Death.     Even  myself  a  few 

Did  not  disdain. 

Spirits !     I  have  sown  fear 

Deep  in  bold  hearts,  and  discord  amidst  calm  ; 

Sharp  hate  \  planted  in  the  soil  of  love, 


122  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

And  jealousy,  that  bitter  weed  which  springs 

Even  in  the  sky.     Pride  and  revenge  I  gave 

To  worms,  which  else  had  crawled,  whereat  they  reared 

Their  curling  necks  on  mountain-tops,  and  threw 

Scorn  and  rebellious  thoughts  tow'rd  Heaven  itself. 

ALL. 
Hail!     Hail! 

SATAN. 

Since  then  I  have  flown  across  the  perilous  deep, 

Haunted  by  pain ;  the  crash  of  rocks  uptorn 

Sang  by  me,  and  the  loud  mad  hurricanes 

Roared  through  the  ether,  and  hot  lightnings  sought  me, 

And  bellowing  in  my  track  the  Thunder  ran. 

MOLOCH; 
Still  thou  art  here,  unhurt  ? 

SATAN. 

Still  I  am  here, 

Undaunted  and  untouched.     Now  speak,  Abaddon  ! 

What  hast  thou  wrought  on  earth  these  hundred  years  ? 

ABADDON. 

That  sphere,  thou  know'st,  was  Moloch's.    When  he  drove 
His  red  battalions  from  earth's  air,  I  chained 
Outrageous  Famine  in  her  den,  and  fed 
The  blue  Plague  till  it  panted  into  sleep ; 
Then  to  the  Earthquake  gave  a  populous  town, 


PANDEMONIUM.  123 

And  rested  from  my  toil :  yet,  —  to  pass  time, 

I  plucked  a  Seville  doctor  from  his  chair, 

And,  clothed  in  his  lusty  likeness,  taught  through  Spain 

Averroes  and  Galen.     I  talked  boldly, 

Concocted  poisons,  and  foretold  eclipse, 

And  wed  inseparably  mind  to  dust : 

So  I'd  a  host  of  sceptics.     What  didst  thou,  ? 

[To  MAMMON. 

MAMMON. 

Hearing  of  a  rich  Cardinal  about  to  die, 

I  lay  me  down  beside  the  Vatican  ; 

And,  when  I  saw  his  soul  escape  in  smoke 

Over  Saint  Peter's,  I  uncased  my  spirit, 

And  stole  into  the  scarlet  churchman's  heart. 

His  corpse  was  quite  oppressed,  so  many  mourned  ! 

Sighs  that  would  ships  unanchor,  groans  which  shook 

The  Palatine  and  its  myrtles,  heaved  the  room  : 

To  stay  which  storm  I  rose.     You  should  have  seen 

The  petticoat-mourners  !     Two  sad  sons  o'  the  Pope 

Cried  "  Curse  !  "  and  dried  their  grief;  the  rest  all  fled. 

How  well  I  did  with  all  his  stolen  wealth, 

Becomes  not  me  to  mention. 

BELIAL. 

I  have  drunk  deep 

Amongst  the  Mussulmans  ;  have  unveiled  looks 
In  cloisters  that  made  monks  forget  their  beads ; 
Blown  lax  sirroccos  on  firm  honesty ; 
And  fired  with  amorous  dreams  the  virgin's  sleep. 


124  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

SATAN. 

What  says  our  gravest  brother  ? 

BEELZEBUB. 

I  sate  beside 

A  throned  king,  and  was  his  counsellor  : 

And  we  knit  laws  together,  such  as  bind 

Strong  hearts  unto  our  side,  and  some  which  chained 

The  panther  people,  as  the  witch-moon  binds 

In  terror  or  mute  dreams  the  raging  sea. 

Sometimes  these  links  fell  shattered ;  but  we  glued 

The  fragments  with  hot  blood,  and  all  grew  firm. 

At  last  that  million-headed  beast,  whose  frown 

Doth  scare  even  thrones,  the  riotous  rebel  Mob 

Rose  up,  and  trod  my  master-king  to  dust. 

I  left  his  fragments  on  the  city  gates, 

And  flew  to  join  ye. 

SATAN. 
The  same  burthen  still. 

MAMMON. 

This  picture  hath  two  sides  ;  and  one  is  bright. 
Wilt  thou  hear  all  ?  —  Our  gold  forgets  its  power  : 
It  glitters  still,  looks  rich,  and  smiles ;  and  yet, 
Like  a  false  friend,  it  fails. 

ABADDON. 
Men  multiply 


PANDEMONIUM.  125 

Like  worms ;  but  though  the  strong  still  slay  the  weak, 
Yet  'tis  not  much.     Some  rascal  qualities, 
Pity,  Remorse,  and  Fear,  usurp  men's  souls. 

MOLOCH. 
Away !  away ! 

BELIAL. 

The  church,  which  late  we  thought 
Grew  up  too  lofty  with  its  load  of  clay 
And  toppled  to  its  ruin,  now  revives. 

SATAN. 

Ah,  Moloch !  did  I  not  confide  to  thee 
That  dusty  planet  ? 

MOLOCH. 

I  have  done  my  best : 

Nay,  have  done  well,  too.     For  a  hundred  years 
The  wretches  have  been  fighting,  men  and  boys, 
Slandering,  thieving,  lying,  cutting  throats, 
And  drowned  their  passions  in  a  crimson  rain. 
Fierce  Ignorance  in  college  and  church  has  sate 
Throned,    and    (from   fear)    respected.     Knaves   have 

thriven : 

Fools  have  sprung  up  and  prospered :  Truth  has  perished. 
A  few  poor  gaunt-eyed  scholars,  lean  and  pale, 
Have  starved  themselves  in  caves,  or  preached  to  air 
'Bout  matters  beyond  my  capacity. 


126  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

BELIAL. 

'Tis  that,  good  Moloch,  which  has  wrought  this  ill. 

SATAN. 

These  imps,  though  small,  are  cunning.    Thy  plain  virtue 
Is  no  match  for  their  tricks.     Our  Belial  here 
Shall  waste  his  leisure  there  a  hundred  years. 
Wilt  thou  have  comrades  ? 

BELIAL. 

One.     Our  friend  here  (Mordax) 
Will  give  me  his  aid  perhaps,  unless  he  owns 
Some  better  engagement  for  the  time.     Wilt  go  ? 

SATAN. 

Speak,  spirit !  Wilt  thou  follow  our  great  brother  ? 
Mark !  if  thou  dost,  though  here  thou'rt  free  as  wind, 
Thou  must  obey. 

MORDAX. 
I  will  obey  the  prince. 

SATAN. 

'Tis  right.  —  (To  BELIAL.)     He  shall  have  license  and 

large  gifts, 

And  take  what  shapes  he  likes  and  stretch  of  power. 
Hast  thou  matured  thy  plan  ?     Dost  thou  affect 
Any  particular  quarter  of  the  globe  ? 


PANDEMONIUM.  127 

• 

BELIAL. 

No,  so  it  be  but  warm  ;  somewhere  i'  the  South. 

MORDAX. 
If  I  may  speak 

SATAN. 

Speak  out ! 

MORDAX. 

As  there  are  some 

Who  in  the  race  of  thought  outstrip  the  rest, 
And  pluck  the  fruit  alone,  would 't  not  be  well 
To  make  one  great  example  ?     There  is  a  fellow, 
Who,  as  'tis  boasted,  scares  the  swerving  stars, 
Hoodwinks  the  moon,  and  earthquake  and  eclipse 
Commands  by  strength  of  prayer ;  and  he  can  tame 
The  tempest,  and  vast  seas,  though  raging  mad. 
He  untwists  dreams.     Time  he  outstrips  ;  and  looks 
Right  through  the  future.     Thus  men  boast.     In  fact 
He  can  read  our  black  language. 

SATAN. 

How !     Who  is't  ? 

MORDAX. 

A  Count  of  Ortiz,  Fernan  de  Marillo. " 

SATAN. 

He  is  descended  from  a  meddling  stock. 


128  DKAMATIC    SCENES. 

One  of  his  fathers  I  struck  dead  with  blight 

At  Cordova.     He  fain  would  read  our  acts, 

And  learn  the  qualities  of  death  and  fire. 

Hie  thee  to  Spain,  then,  Mordax  !     Fly,  my  brother  ! 

There's  much  to  do  on  earth  if  this  be  true. 

BELIAL. 

'Tis  truth,  indeed.    I  have  some  good  friends  there, 
Inquisitors,  and  nobles,  and  cowled  monks, 
Who,  with  the  common  herd,  will  give  us  help. 

SATAN. 

And  now,  good  brother !  we  will  say  farewell. 
When  thou  art  gone,  we  will  proceed  in  council. 

BELIAL. 

Farewell !    I'll  bring  some  histories  for  your  ear, 
At  our  next  meeting.     Long  farewell  to  all ! 

[BELIAL  and  MORDAX  ascend,  and  are  gradually  lost  in  the 
distance. 

CHORUS. 

Fare  ye  well !     Farewell ! 
May  ye  prosper,  wheresoever 
Through  the  scorned  earth  ye  go, 
Amidst  death  and  pain  and  woe, 
Smiting  always,  healing  never. 


Fare  ye  well !     Farewell ! 
All  the  regions  of  great  Hell 


PANDEMONIUM.  129 

Echo  their  wide  wonder, 
That  a  god  should  elsewhere  roam, 
And  the  strong  unwieldy  Thunder 
Leaves  his  black  and  hollow  home, 
And  along  the  brazen  arches 
Pealeth,  and  the  winged  blast  parches 
With  its  breath  the  iron  shore  ; 
And  the  billows,  in  red  ranks, 
Rush  upon  the  scorched  banks, 
Sighing  evermore ! 

[Darkness  covers  the  assembly  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  Chorus. 


THE  TEMPTATION. 


Stand  up,  thou  son  of  Cretan  Daedalus, 
And  let  us  tread  the  lower  labyrinth." 

MIDDLETOX. 


THE    TEMPTATION. 

SCENE   I.  —  A  Street  in  Murcia. 
The  Count  of  ORTIZ  and  MORDAX  enter,  as  from  a  Tavern. 

COUNT  [singing]. 

WINE  !  wine ! 

The  child  of  the  grape  is  mine. 

We'll  nurse  it  again  and  again, 

Until  it  array  the  brain 

With  wit,  or  until  it  expire 

In  hot  desire, 

And  then  we'll  drink  again,  &c. 

MORDAX. 
Count ! 

COUNT. 
1  am  well,  quite  well.     The  air  blows  fresh. 

MORDAX. 

If  ever  you  should  go  to  Lapland,  (mark ! 

To  Lapland,  where  lean  witches  sweep  the  moon,) 

I'll  lend  you  a  broom  to  ride  on. 


134  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

COUNT. 

Ha,  ha  !  —  well  ? 

MORDAX. 

I  will,  by  Sathan !     You  shall  be  equipped 
With  expedition  for  a  northern  journey. 
But  speak,  —  and  ere  the  morning  stars  look  pale 
We'll  breathe  above  the  Baltic. 

COUNT. 
Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

MORDAX. 

I'll  take  thee  there  upon  a  goat's  back  flying  : 

Look !  amongst  all  those  lights.    Dost  see  'em  twinkling  ? 

COUNT. 

Away  !  I  could  not  do  an  impious  deed 
Before  the  eternal  splendor  of  the  stars ! 

MORDAX. 

Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  !     Now  'tis  my  turn  to  laugh. 
By  Momus,  you  jest  well.     Didst  ever  hear 
Of  Agaberta,  that  most  famous  witch  ? 

COUNT. 

No. 


THE    TEMPTATION.  135 

MORDAX. 

Thou  shalt  see  her.     She  shall  give  thee  philtres, 
So  thou  mayst  change  to  air,  or  walk  in  fire. 

COUNT. 

Peace,  peace  !  no  more.    The  place  seems  full  of  frenzy. 
Millions  of  sparks  go  dancing  through  the  air : 
My  brain  grows  sick  and  dizzy.     How  is  this  ? 
An  armed  phantom  seems  to  gaze  upon  us  ! 

MORDAX. 
That  is  my  master. 

COUNT. 

% 

What,  yon  piece  of  cloud  ? 

MORDAX. 

Ay,  sir,  yon  lofty  gentleman.     Folks  say 
He  was  a  gambler  once,  and  dared  a  stake 
Such  as  before  or  since  was  never  won. 
He  lost,  indeed 

COUNT. 
'Tis  gone ! 

MORDAX. 

He  came  to  show 
How  tenderly  he  watches  over  us. 
Hark !  there  are  footsteps  coming.     This  way,  sir. 
They  must  not  track  us.     Hush  ! 


136  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

COUNT. 

How  the  wind  wails  !  [Exeunt 

DON  FERRAND  and  INEZ  enter. 

DON   FERRAND. 

Look !  where  they  go,  well  mated,  (rake  and  knave,) 
The  tavern  brawler,  and  his  crooked  friend ! 

INEZ. 
Uncle,  —  beware ! 

DON    FERRAND. 

If  the  fierce  devil  still     * 
Sends  out  his  brood  to  blacken  this  fair  world, 
That  slave  is  one  ;  he  with  the  dusk  brute  visage, 
And  shuffling  gait,  and  glittering  scorching  eyes. 

INEZ. 

But  Manuel,  sir,  has  nought  in  common  with  him. 
The  Count  of  Ortiz,  be  whoe'er  his  mates, 
Owns  something  still,  methinks,  which  asks  respect. 

DON   FERRAND. 

So  !  so  !    You  love  him  still  ?    Ybw,  Melchior's  daughter, 
With  half  a  kingdom  for  your  dowry.     Good  ! 

INEZ. 
I  love  him  ?  —  Well,  I  love  him.     What  must  follow  ? 


THE    TEMPTATION.  137 


DON   FERRAND. 


Nothing ;  all's  said.     The  worst  extremity 
Of  baseness  and  enduring  grief  is  touched. 

INEZ. 

Speak  gently,  sir  ;  and  speak  more  nobly  too, 
Of  one  who  (though  now  fall'n)  was  good  and  wise  : 
Valiant  he  is,  sir,  and  a  peer  of  Spain  ; 
And  on  his  brow  wears  his  nobility  ! 
Why  do  you  scorn  him,  sir  ?     He  ever  spoke 
Kindly  of  you  ;  and  when  my  father's  fame 
And  tottering  greatness  asked  for  some  strong  help, 
He  pledged  his  honor  for  his  truth,  and  saved  him. 

DON   FERRAND. 

That  story  wants  but  truth.     If  time  be  given 

INEZ. 

If  time  be  given,  he'll  force  the  world  give  back 
Its  bright  opinion,  sir,  and  show  him  honor. 
Oh !  then  (if  he  return,  and  stand  redeemed 
From  his  wild  youth  and  be  —  what  he  may  be) 
Soon  shall  the  poor  maid  cast  her  mask  of  pride, 
And  look,  once  more,  love  upon  Manuel ! 

[Exeunt. 


138  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 


SCENE   II.  —  An  underground  Cemetery. 

The  COUNT  and  MORDAX  are  dimly  seen  descending  a  broad 
flight  of  steps  in  the  distance. 

MORDAX  (entering). 

Adieu,  Sir  Phosphor  !     For  thy  light,  take  thanks ! 
We've  barred  the  world  out  bravely,  noble  count ! 

COUNT. 
Where  are  we  ?     What  !  is  this  the  road  ?     Tis  dark. 

MORDAX. 

Ay  ;  but  as  fire  is  struck  from  out  cold  stone, 
We'll  pluck  bright  wonders  from  this  world  of  night. 
One  of  earth's  wisest  sons,  'tis  said,  taught  men 
That  they  should  seek  her  subtle  secrets,  not 
In  their  near  likeness,  but  in  opposite  shapes. 

COUNT. 

Ho,  speak!     Who  goes?     I  thought  —  but   no;   'twas 
nothing. 

MORDAX. 
'Tis  nought.     Look  up  !     This  is  a  cemetery. 


THE    TEMPTATION.  139 

Take  care,  else  you  may  stumble  on  a  king. 
Holla !  Methought  I  trod  on  a  fool's  skull. 
This  is  a  learned  spot ;  perhaps  a  bed 
Of  full  blown  doctors  :  —  they  are  harmless  now  ! 

COUNT. 
You  are  a  nice  observer. 

HORDAX. 

Oh  !  I  am  used 

To  choose  'tween  knave  and  fool.     Dost  thou  not  see, 
There,  —  a  pale  stream  of  light,  run  to  and  fro, 
Threading  the  darkness  ?  —  'tis  a  madman's  wits. 

COUNT. 

Where  are  we  ?    Let  us  go.     The  air  is  close  : 
And  noises  as  of  falling  waters,  mixed 
With  strange  laments  and  hummings  of  fierce  insects, 
Take  my  ears  captive. 

MORDAX. 

O  fine  harmony ! 

'Faith,  they  have  dexterous  fiddlers  here.    Who  blows 
The  trumpet  honeysuckle  in  my  ear  ? 
Speak  out,  Sir  Gnome.     Hush !  hark !    That  gentleman 
Who  beats  the  drum  must  be  a  cricket  ? 

COUNT. 
'Tis  one. 


140 


DRAMATIC    SCENES. 


MORDAX. 

Right,  or  a  death-watch.     Now.,  sir,  what's  the  matter  ? 


COUNT. 

I  felt  a  clammy  touch,  as  cold  as  death, 
Flap  on  my  cheek,  and  something  breathed  on  me 
An  earthy  odor  —  faugh  !  as  though  the  tongue 
O'er  which 't  had  passed  had  fed  on  worms  and  dust. 
Again,  —  who  goes  ?    Dost  thou  not  hear  a  trampling : 


MORDAX. 

Be  calm :  'tis  but  some  people  from  the  Moon, 

Or  the  star  Venus,  or  from  Mercury, 

Madmen,  or  rakes  ;  or  monks,  —  fellows  who  feed 

On  air,  and  rail  against  our  homely  dishes. 

A  plague  upon  the  spiritual  rogues, 

They  always  abuse  their  betters  ! 

COUNT. 

Hush,  —  sweet  music  ! 
The  air  is  vital :  every  pore  seems  stung 
Until  it  whispers  with  a  thousand  tongues  ! 

VOICES  are  heard ;  faintly  at  first,  but  becoming  gradually 
more  distinct. 

SPIRITS  (below). 
Come  away  !  come  away  ! 

SPIRITS  (above). 
Whither?  whither? 


THE    TEMPTATION.  141 

SPIRITS  (below). 

Come  away  !  come  away  ! 
And  leave  the  light  of  the  fading  day ! 
Thorough  the  vapor,  across  the  stream 
Come,  —  as  swift  as  a  lover's  dream ! 

Come  hither !  come  hither !  come  hither ! 
Over  the  wood  and  over  the  heather  ! 
Where  winds  are  dying 
Along  the  deep ; 
Where  rivers  are  lying 
Asleep,  asleep ! 

SPIRITS  (above). 
We  come  !  we  are  coming !  but  whither  ? 

SPIRITS  (below). 
Come  hither  !  come  hither !  come  hither ! 

CHORUS. 

Hark!  hark!  hark!  hark! 

A  power  is  peopling  all  the  dark 

With  wonder ;  life,  and  death,  and  terror ; 

And  dreams  which  fill  the  brain  with  error. 

The  elves  are  coming  in  glittering  streams, 

Loaded  with  light  from  the  moon  beams ; 

And  the  gnomes  are  behind  in  a  dusky  legion, 

Hurrying  all  to  their  earthen  fare  : 


142  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

A  VOICE. 

Stand,  and  gaze  !  for  now  ye  are 
In  the  midst  of  a  magic  region  ! 

MORDAX. 
Dost  hear,  Count  ?    Look  about  ?    What  see  you,  sir  ? 

COUNT. 

I  see  a  vault,  —  spectral,  —  immeasurable, 

Save  that  at  times  its  gaunt  and  stony  ribs 

Bulge  through  the  darkness  and  betray  its  bounds  : 

And  now  come  countless  crowds,  (millions  on  millions,) 

Whirling  like  glittering  fire-flies  round  about  us. 

By  hell,  the  things  seem  human !     Let  me  pass. 

MORDAX. 

Stay,  stay,  sir ;  use  more  patience  ;  you'll  dislodge 
These  piles  of  coffins.     Kings  and  counts  lie  here,  sir, 
Shouldering  each  other  from  their  places  still. 
The  villanous  lifeless  lump  of  clay 

COUNT. 

What's  that  ? 

Methought  I  heard  the  arches  crack :  —  Look,  look ! 

The  pillars  are  alive  !    Each  one  turns  round, 

And  scowls,  as  though  the  weight  crushed  in  his  brain ! 

Dead  faces  leer  upon  me  ;  figures  chatter  ; 

And  from  the  darkest  depths  watch  horrid  eyes ! 

Let  me  come  near  thee. 


THE    TEMPTATION.  143 

MORDAX. 

Rest  here. 

COUNT. 

Ha!  I  feel 

As  though  I  leant  against  an  iron  shape. 

Thy  sinews  (and  thy  heart  ?)  are  firmly  knit. 

MORDAX. 

Never  did  nerve  or  muscle  yet  give  way, 
From  fear,  or  pity,  or  remorse,  or  love  ! 
Never  did  yet  the  bounding  blood  go  back 
Into  its  springs,  or  leave  my  dusk  cheek  pale. 
But,  I'll  not  boast  at  present.     Some  dull  day 
I'll  tell  you  all  I've  done,  —  since  Cain  went  mad. 
Meantime,  let's  see  what  comes.     How  fare  you  now  ? 

COUNT. 

I  feel  more  firm  since  I  did  lean  on  thee. 
But,  hark !  the  ground  labors  with  some  strange  birth. 
What  volumes  of  dark  smoke  it  sends  abroad ! 
Blow  off  the  cloud ! 

[MORDAX  blows,  and  a  Mirror  is  seen. 
What's  here  ?     Methinks  I  see 
A  mighty  glass,  set  in  an  ebon  frame. 

MORDAX. 

Right,  sir  ;  true  Madagascar  ;  black  as  hate. 
Now,  then,  we'll  show  you  what  our  art  can  do  : 


144  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Wilt  have  a  ghost  from  Lapland  or  Japan  ? 
Speak  !  for  'twill  cost  a  minute,  and  some  rhyme. 

COUNT. 

You're  pleasant  ? 

MORDAX. 

Sir,  they'll  not  obey  plain  prose. 
Whate'er  my  friends,  the  utilitarians,  preach, 
Verse  has  its  use,  you  see.    But  listen,  senor. 
—  Come  ! 

Without  torch,  or  trump,  or  drum, 
Every  fine  audacious  spirit 
Who  doth  vice  or  spite  inherit ! 
By  His  name,  long- worshipped  'round 
All  the  red  realms  underground, 
I  bid  and  bind  ye  to  my  spell ! 
By  the  sinner  who  doth  dwell 
In  the  temple  like  a  saint ! 
By  the  unbeliever's  taint ! 
By  the  human  beasts  who  riot 
O'er  their  brothers  graved  in  quiet ! 

COUNT. 
You  have  a  choice  collection  of  quaint  phrases. 

MORDAX. 

I  picked  'em  up,  as  men  of  reputation 
Steal  musty  phrases  from  forgotten  books. 


THE    TEMPTATION.  145 

But  how's  this?  'Wake,  dust  o'  the  earth !  Are  ye  deaf? 
Mischievous  ?  mad  ?  or  spelled  ?  or  bound  in  brass  ? 
Away !  a  million  of  you  tumbling  imps 
That  jump  about  here  !     Hence,  and  drag  before  us 
A  squadron  of  sea-buried  bones.     Begone  ! 
Ravage  the  deep,  and  let  us  see  your  backs 
Crack  with  a  ship  load  from  the  ooze.    Oh,  ho  ! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  him  ? 

COUNT. 
A  strange  noise  I  hear. 

MORDAX. 

It  is  the  Atlantic  stirring  in  his  depths. 
Dost  hear  his  spouting  floods  ?    Hark  !    Banks  and  cliffs 
Are  broken,  and  the  boiling  billows  run 
Over  the  land  and  lay  the  sea-depths  bare  ! 
Now  shall  the  lean  ghosts  laugh  and  shake  their  sides, 
Cramped  by  the  waves  no  more  ! 

COUNT. 

How  the  winds  blow  ! 

A  Throng  of  Shadows  rush  in. 

SHADOWS. 

We  come  :  we  have  burst  the  chain 
Of  slumber,  and  death,  and  pain. 
The  ice  bolts  could  not  bind  us, 
10 


146  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Though  they  shot  through  our  shrunken  forms ; 
And  we  left  the  swift  light  behind  us, 
The  wrack  and  the  howling  storms. 

A  Group  of  Spirits  descend. 

FIRST  SPIRIT. 
I  have  trod  the  frozen  mountains. 

SECOND    SPIRIT. 

I  have  winged  the  burning  air. 

THIRD    SPIRIT. 

I  have  left  the  boiling  fountains, 
Which,  like  flowers  rich  and  rare, 
Spread  their  leaves  of  crystal  high, 
In  the  lonely  polar  sky ! 

A  Crowd  of  Indian  Spirits  are  driven  in. 

INDIAN    SPIRITS. 

We  are  come  ;  we  came  in  legions 
From  the  flat  and  dusky  regions, 
Where  a  wooden  God  they  own. 
We  have  perished  bone  by  bone, 
Crushed  beneath  the  giant's  car, 
While  our  mothers  shouted  far, 
Over  jungle,  over  plain, 
And  drowned  the  discord  of  our  pain  ! 


THE    TEMPTATION.  147 

MORDAX. 

You  see,  sir,  you  may  choose  your  company. 

COUNT. 

No  more  of  this ;  which  may  be  false,  —  or  true. 

[Spirits  fade  away. 
Let  me  see  one  I  know  to  be  now  dead. 

MORDAX. 

Dost  see  this  tawdry  coffin  ?     It  is  now 
A  prelate's  palace,  —  Bishop  Nunez'  see. 
The  poor  at  last  can  come  quite  near  this  saint : 
Nay,  'round  him,  now  the  worms  are  met  in  council : 
Cossus  and  Lumbricus  are  chosen  presidents ; 
The  one  because  he  is  a  judge  of  learning, 
And  t'other  has  taste  in  flesh.     Wilt  see  your  friend  ? 

COUNT. 

No,  let  him  rest :  poor  Nunez !  What  lies  here 
Beneath  this  heap  of  rough  and  rotting  boards  ? 
A  felon's  body  !  Well,  what  shall  be  done  ? 

MORDAX. 

Kick  it,  as  you  would  spurn  an  enemy ! 

[CouNT  touches  it  with  his  foot :  the  boards  crumble  away, 
and  a  body  is  seen. 

COUNT. 
Ha !  Sanchez  !  Thou  false  friend  !  Rise  up,  ye  rocks, 


148  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Pillars,  and  floors  of  stone !    Rise  up  and  crush 
The  villain  downwards !    Hell  hath  let  him  'scape. 

MORDAX. 
This  rogue  looks  paler  than  his  shirt. 

COUNT. 

Look  there ! 

The  name  of  Sathan  is  not  on  his  brow. 

MORDAX  (looking). 
N — o  :  there's  no  name. 

COUNT. 

And  yet,  in  his  black  heart, 
The  devil  lived,  and  swayed  him  like  a  slave, 
And  laughed,  and  lied,  and  with  a  glozing  tongue 
Cheated  the  world  of  love. 

MORDAX. 

What,  this  poor  worm  ? 

What,  he  with  his  throat  cut  from  ear  to  ear  ? 

Ha !  ha !     O  mighty  man  ! 

COUNT. 

He  slew  my  sister, 

So  good,  so  fair,  so  young  ! 

MORDAX. 
I  warrant  you 


THE    TEMPTATION.  149 

The  gallant's  sorry  enough  now.     Begone  ! 

[The  figure  sinks. 

But  how's  this  ?   you  look  pale,  sir.     Lean  on  me  : 
I'll  be  the  reed,  at  least,  if  not  the  rock. 
But,  hush  !  strange  music,  like  a  swarm  of  bees, 
Seems  oozing  from  the  ground  ! 

VOICES  from  below. 

Hush !  there  is  a  creature  forming  : 
Earth  is  into  beauty  warming  ; 
Between  dust,  and  death,  and  life, 
There  is  now  a  crimson  strife : 
Between  fire  and  frozen  clay, 
Water,  ether,  darkness,  day, 
There  is  now  a  magic  motion, 
Like  the  slumber  of  the  ocean 
Heaving  in  the  sullen  dawn  ! 
Is  the  cloud  withdrawn  ? 

A  VOICE. 

'Tis  withdrawn ! 

Friends  and  foes  are  met  together, 
Like  a  day  of  April  weather, 
Beauty  hand  in  hand  with  death ; 
What  is  wanting  ?  —  only  breath  ! 

The  Shadow  of  the  Body  of  a  Girl  rises. 

COUNT. 
Speak,  ere  I  look.    What  comes  ? 


150  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

MORDAX. 

A  sleeping  girl. 

Yet  —  round  her  white  throat  winds  a  dark  red  line  : 

What  can  it  mean  ? 

COUNT  (looking  up). 
Ha !  'tis  herself,  dead,  dead  ! 
Poor  girl,  poor  girl,  too  early  lost !    Was  Fate 
(Who  gives  to  all  the  wretched  store  of  years) 
A  niggard  but  to  thee  ? 

MORDAX. 
Now,  let  her  pass. 

COUNT. 

Yet  one  look  ;  for  methinks  it  is  (though  pale) 
A  pretty  picture.     When  stern  tyrants  perish, 
False  slaves  or  lustful  men,  we  look  and  loathe 
The  ghastly  bulks  ;  but  Beauty,  pale  and  cold, 
(Albeit  washed  never  in  Cimolian  earth,) 
Like  the  crushed  rose  which  will  not  lose  its  sweets, 
Commands  us  after  death.     She  sleeps,  she  sleeps ! 
Have  you  no  power  to  wake  her  from  her  sleep  ? 
To  give  the  old  sad  accents  to  her  tbngue  ? 

MORDAX. 
'Tis  past  my  power. 

COUNT. 
I'll  give  thee 


THE    TEMPTATION.  151 

HORDAX. 

Noble  Count, 

Dost  think  I'm  bought  with  gold  ? 

COUNT. 
I'll  worship  thee 

MORDAX. 

Umph  !  that  sounds  better.     Yet, 

I  cannot  do't ;  or  must  not.     Wouldst  thou  have 

The  dead  turn  traitors  and  betray  the  grave  ? 

COUNT. 

Didst  thou  not  swear  that  I  should  look  through  time  ? 
See  joy  and  sorrow  ?    Wherefore  drag  me  here  ? 

MORDAX. 

Sir,  you  shall  see  the  future,  if  you  will. 

But,  patience  !     This  fair  thing  must  vanish  first ; 

And  then  we'll  try  your  fortune.     Say  farewell ! 

COUNT. 
Farewell,  my  dear  one  —  Ha !  be  gentle  with  her. 

(Dirge,  during  which  the  Body  sinks.) 

Lay  her  low  in  virgin  earth, 
Till  she  claim  a  brighter  birth  ! 
Let  the  gentlest  spirits  weave 
Songs  for  those  who  love  to  grieve  ; 


152  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Maidens,  mothers,  lovers  (they 
Who  have  locks  too  early  gray), 
Fathers  who  are  tempest  tossed, 
Widows  who  have  won  —  and  lost ! 
Childre/i,  fairer  than  the  morning, 
They  who  die  and  leave  a  warning, 
With  the  unhealing  wound,  whose  smart 
Never  quits  the  childless  heart ! 

COUNT. 
Now  let  us  look  on  that  which  is  to  be. 


My  glass  is  there.     Yet,  ere  you  gaze,  think  well. 
The  future 

COUNT.     . 

Bid  it  come,  as  terrible 
As  tempest  or  the  plague,  I'll  look  upon't, 
And  dare  it  to  an  answer.     Methinks  I  feel 
Swollen  with  courage  or  some  grand  despair, 
That  lifts  me  above  fortune.     Quick  !  unveil 
Your  dusky  mirror,  you,  lords  of  the  mansion ! 

MORDAX. 

Base  goblins,  quick !     Unveil  your  lying  glass, 
And  let  my  lord  look  in.     Now,  noble  Count, 
What  see  you  ? 

[Shadows  appear  on  the  mirror. 


THE    TEMPTATION. 


153 


COUNT. 


Ha! 


MORDAX. 

Two  figures,  like  ourselves  ! 
We're  linked  together,  Count  ? 

COUNT. 

True  ;  but  tlnj  shadow 

Wears  a  strange  cunning  look  and  quivering  eye. 
And  the  face  changes  —  Ha  !  from  young  to  old, 
From  fair  to  dark  —  from  calm  to  smiles —  to  mirth  ! 
From  mirth,  look  !  into  —  Ha  !  DIABOLUS  ? 

[Turns  round  quickly. 


What  is't  ? 


MORDAX. 


COUNT. 


'Tis  gone  ! 

Methought  thou  didst  assume  a  fearful  visage. 
Let  me  look  on  thee,  nearer  ;  no,  thou'rt  fair, 
As  fair  as  truth. 


No  fairer  ? 


Wouldst  thou  be 
Whiter  than  truth  ? 


MORDAX. 


COUNT. 


154  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

MORDAX. 

Why,  —  no.     In  fact,  my  notion 

Is  that  she  wears  a  much  too  cold  complexion. 

Now,  sir,  I  like  the  olive,  —  or  the  black. 

Then,  she  was  naked,  too,  or  poets  lie  : 

Give  me  some  covering,  though 't  be  but  a  mask. 

COUNT. 
That  was  a  fearful  face  I  saw ! 

MORDAX. 

Forget  it. 

Let  us  consult  the  mirror  once  again. 

[Other  Shadows  appear. 

COUNT. 

Heaven  !  'tis  herself,  my  love,  my  dear,  dear  Inez ! 
She  will  be  mine.     After  Love's  fears  and  pains, 
The  god  sits  crowned  with  roses  !     What  are  they  1 

MORDAX. 
Your  children. 

COUNT. 

Both  ?  —  How  fair  !  no  lily  fairer. 

See,  with  what  matron  smiles  the  mother  bends, 

Kissing  their  veined  temples  with  her  lips  ! 

Mine  ?  mine  ?  all  mine  ?     O,  Fate,  why  did  I  swear 

Hate  everlasting  to  thee  ?     I  abjure 

My  rashness  at  thy  feet. 


THE    TEMPTATION.  155 

MORDAX. 

Had  you  not  better 
Dip  once  again  in  the  dark  lottery  ? 
Perhaps  this  spring  may  change.    But  see,  what  comes  ? 

[The  Shadows  alter 

COUNT. 

A  thin  shape  comes.  Tis  like  myself;  so  like, 
That,  but  'tis  younger  and  more  spare  and  pale, 
I'd  say  —  'twas  I. 

MORDAX. 
This  phantom  never  lived. 

COUXT. 

I'll  call  it.     Thou 

MORDAX. 

Be  still !     You  must  not  talk 
To  that  which  ne'er  was  flesh.     Unto  my  ears 
Confide  your  transports.     We  may  talk  together  ; 
Though  not  to  them.     These  pigmies  are  as  proud 
As  a  rich  tradesman,  or  a  new-made  lord. 

COUNT. 
Who  is  the  vision  ?     Speak ! 

MORDAX. 

It  is  — your  son. 


156  DRAMATIC    SCEXES. 

COUNT. 

Forbid  it,  Heaven  !     Sickness  or  want  hath  struck 
This  pale  thin  boy  with  death.     Must  he  then  bear 
Youth  without  blossom  ?  without  age,  decay  ? 
After  all  childhood's  ills  and  pains  endured, 
(Before  life's  sweets  are  blown,)  'tis  hard  to  die. 
Let  him  not  perish  ! 

MORDAX. 
Do  you  pray  to  me  1 

COUNT. 

I  had  forgot  :  methought  the  thing  was  real. 
But,  see,  he  comes  alone  !     Shew  me  the  rest, 
All  the  fair  shapes,  and  she,  the  first  and  fairest, 
Whose  beauty  crowns  my  dreams,  whose  heart  is  mine, 
My  own  !     Not  all  your  juggling  tricks  can  shake 
My  trust  in  her  unmatched  fidelity. 

MORDAX. 

I  said  not  she  was  false  :  she  is  most  true. 

COUNT. 

O,  my  fast  friend  ! 

MORDAX. 

But  beauty  still  is  frail ; 

And  what  dishonor  could  not,  DEATH  has  struck  ! 


THE    TEMPTATION.  157 

COUNT. 

Ah! 

MORDAX. 

Stand  up,  Count !     What,  fall  at  the  first  word  ? 
Why,  this  is  but  the  future.     (Aside.)    The  weak  fool ! 

COUNT. 

O  thou  false  friend !    (He  turns  his  back  on  me.) 
Is  there  no  hope,  no  way,  no 

MORDAX. 

None;  yes,  —  one  ! 

COUNT. 

Quick,  quick  ! 

MORDAX. 

You  need  but  change  your  livery,  Count. 

You've  served  one  thankless  king  in  camps  and  councils, 

Have  got  hard  knocks,  no  rank,  and  little  pay  ; 

Have  been  dishonored  !    What  else  need  be  said  ? 

Push  him  aside,  and  choose  a  better  master. 

COUNT  (pauses). 
Umph  !  —  he  must  be  a  king. 

MORDAX. 
He  is. 


158  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

COUNT. 

A  great  one. 

MORDAX. 

He  is  a  king  more  vast  and  terrible 
Than  any  one  whose  cannon  shakes  the  world. 
He  hath  huge  hosts,  wide  realms,  and  such  a  power 
As  the  strong  tempest  hath  when  it  is  wroth. 
Fate  cannot  awe  him  :  Death  is  sworn  his  slave. 

COUNT. 
What  devil 

MORDAX. 

Hu — sh  !    You've  guessed  well.    Hark  !  his  name 

[  Whispers. 

COUNT. 
Avaunt !    What  art  thou  ?    Who  art  thou  ? 

MORDAX. 

Your  friend  !                            [The  figure  of  MORDAX  changes. 
Your  fellow,  too,  who'll  save  all  those  you  love  : 
But,  still,  you  must  be  prompt.  Your  vow  runs  thus 

COUNT. 
I  will  not  hear  him.     Ears,  shut  up  your  sense  ! 

MORDAX. 
Choose  and  be  quick,  Count  ;  for  you're  in  some  peril. 


THE    TEMPTATION.  159 

The  Inquisitors  have  scented  out  your  path, 

(They  are  brave  bloodhounds,)  and  will  soon  be  here. 

COUNT. 
I  care  not. 

MORDAX. 

But  they've  racks,  which  change  men's  humors. 
Then,  for  the  things  thou  lovest,  their  graves  are  open : 
Wilt  save,  or  thrust  them  in  ? 

COUNT. 

Be  dumb,  thou  tempter. 

Turn  your  red  eyeballs  from  me.     O,  'tis  fable 
Black,  base,  unfounded  false  :  what  else  ?  what  else  ? 
Yet,  if  it  be,  —  and  I  can  save  them  thus  ? 

[A  noise  is  heard  at  a  distance. 

MORDAX. 

Hark  !  they  are  on  thee. 

COUNT. 

Ha  !  is  death  so  near  ? 
No  matter ;  let  it  come.     I  shake  with  fear  ! 

MORDAX. 

I  still  can  save  thee,  thee  and  all  thou  lovest  : 
Quick,  speak  the  word. 


160  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

COUNT. 

The  word  !  what  word  ?     Speak  on. 

[Voices  are  heard  without. 

MORDAX. 
They're  at  the  door.    Say  thus  :  "  I  give  my  soul " 

COUNT. 

Stay  !  stop  !    What  shall  be  done  ?     Now,  life  or  death  ? 
The  grave  for  her,  —  or  love  ?  God  help  me  !    Ha ! 
I'm  safe  :  'twas  a  wild  struggle ;  but  I'm  safe. 
Fiend !  I  abjure  thee,  (falls  down,)  loathe  thee. 

OFFICER  (without). 

Open  the  doors, 

In  the  name  of  the  most  Holy  Inquisition  ! 

MORDAX. 
Ha,  ha !  the  holy  rogues  !  —  (whispering.)  You  still  may 

choose, 
Life,  love,  and  wealth  ?  or  the  rack  and  scaffold  ?  Quick ! 

OFFICER  (without). 
Burst  through  the  doors ! 

[The  doors  are  broken  open,  and  Officers,  &c.,  of  the 

Inquisition  enter. 
Ho  !  seize  upon  him.     Ha  ! 
My  lord  of  Ortiz  ?     Sir,  Count  Melchior  heard 
You  were  beset  by  some  fierce  enemy, 


THE    TEMPTATION.  161 

And  sent  us  here  to  save  you.     Raise  him  up ! 
Now  where's  your  foe  ?     Seize  on  him  ! 

A  VOICE  laughs. 
Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

OFFICER. 

I  hear  a  horrid  voice,  but  nothing  see. 

Spread  yourselves  out,  and  search  the  vaults  with  care. 

Haste,  and  let  none  escape. 

COUNT  (faintly). 
'Tis  vain  :  he's  gone  ! 
Wherefore  he  came,  or  who  he  is,  or  was 

OFFICER. 

We  do  not  ask :  Our  master  bade  us  say 
He'd  speak  in  private  with  you. 

COUNT. 
He  is  wise  ; 

Wise,  good,  and  gentle,  as  a  great  man  should  be. 
Bring  me  before  him  :  I  will  try  to  thank  him. 
I'd  go,  but  cannot. 

VOICE  laughs  again. 
Ha,  ha ! 

OFFICER. 

Lean  on  me. 

11 


162  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Now  let  us  haste  :  Methinks  strange  sin  and  horror 
Tenant  these  lonely  vaults.     Perhaps  they  sit 
Watching  the  couches  of  the  wicked  dead ! 
Come,  let  us  go  :  to  the  Count's  house,  my  lord  ? 

COUNT. 

Ay,  strait,  strait,  strait :  ( Aside)  and  strait  to  Inez'  bosom ; 
Which  was  (and  must  once  more  be)  my  sweet  home ! 

[CouNT,  <SfC.  exeunt. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

SCENE  —  The  Study  of  Michael  Angela  at  Rome. 
MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  PUPILS. 

MICHAEL. 

So,  'tis  well  done,  Battista  ;  ably  drawn. 
Do  thus,  and  thou  wilt  need  no  marble  fame. 

FIRST    PUPIL. 

Look,  Michael ! 

MICHAEL. 

Ah !  'tis  bad.     These  colors  sleep 
Like  death  upon  thy  figures :  touch  them  thus. 
This  flesh  is  like  a  cardinal,  red  and  dull : 
Thought  should  lie  pale  upon  the  scholar's  cheek ; 
Thus,  —  thus.     And  now,  my  young  friend,  Cosimo, 
Give  me  thy  sketch ;  nay  do  not  fear  me.     So  ! 
Why  thou  hast  overwrought  this  shape,  my  child, 
Cheating  (fie  on't !)  air-travelling  Ganymede 
Of  his  boy-beauty.     See,  'tis  thus  :  that  eye, 
Lash't  with  dark  fringe  :  touch  the  lip  tenderly  ; 


166  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

And  hide  his  forehead  all  in  cloudy  gold. 
See,  let  him  lie  thus  ;  helpless  ;  thus,  my  child ; 
And  clasp  the  eagle's  talon  round  his  arm. 
There,  it  is  done.     What  think'st  thou  ? 

SECOND  PUPIL. 
Oh !  'tis  brave, 

'Tis  brave.     Thy  eagle  is  the  king  of  eagles, 
As  thou  art  king  of  painters. 

MICHAEL. 
Idle  child ! 

SECOND    PUPIL. 

Shall  I  win  fame  ? 

MICHAEL. 

Fame  is  a  bounteous  tree  : 

Upon  its  branches  hang  bubbles  and  gold. 

Which  wilt  thou  have  ? 

SECOND  PUPIL. 
Both,  Michael. 

MICHAEL. 

Art  so  greedy  ? 

Thou'lt  scarcely  prosper.     Wilt  thou  be  the  dog 
Who  grasped  at  flesh  and  shadow,  and  lost  all  ? 
Bring  me  that  head  of  Faunus,  Giacomo  : 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  167 

That  —  big  as  a  giant,  with  the  snaky  locks, 

And  the  wild  eyes,  and  nostrils  stretched  and  blown. 

Ha !  this  is  right. 

THIRD  PUPIL. 

Tis  like  a  Titan,  Michael. 

None  but  thyself  can  master  these  great  shapes. 

MICHAEL. 

Ha,  ha !  —  There,  give  it  me,  good  Giacomo. 
Why,  how  thou  fix'st  thine  eye  upon  its  eye  : 
Wouldst  thou  wage  battle  with  it,  Giacomo  ? 

THIRD   PUPIL. 

Shall  I  not  copy  it  ? 

MICHAEL. 

Surely  ;  but  take  heed  : 

Mar  not  the  thought  which  thou  dost  gaze  upon, 

Translating  it  in  blind  obedience  ; 

But  steal  the  spirit,  as  old  Prometheus  won 

From  Phoebus'  fiery  wheels  the  living  light. 

It  is  not  dainty  shadows,  nor  harlot  hues, 

(Though  flushed  with  sunset,  like  Vecelli's  gauds,) 

Will  make  a  painter.     Take  great  heed  the  mind 

Live  in  the  eye,  and  the  wild  appetite 

Breathe  through  the  bosom  and  the  sinewy  shape. 

Come  near  me.     Mark !  do  not  thou  miss  that  turn. 


168  DKAMATIC    SCENES. 

RAFFAELLE  enters. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Good  morrow,  Michael.     How  thrive  thy  designs 
For  the  Pope's  chapel  ? 

A  PUPIL. 
Buonarotti ! 

MICHAEL. 

Ha! 

Who  speaks  ?' 

RAFFAELLE. 

Thy  pupil.     Come  I  in  good  time  ? 

MICHAEL. 

Look  and  decide.  [Shows  a  Picture. 

RAFFAELLE. 

'Tis  grand  and  beautiful. 

MICHAEL. 

This  visage  came  upon  me  while  I  slept. 

RAFFAELLE. 

O  the  rich  sleep  !     Couldst  thou  not  cozen  her 
To  quit  her  poppies,  and  aye  toil  for  thee  ? 


MICHAEL    ASTGELO.  169 

MICHAEL. 

Methought  I  lived  three  thousand  years  ago, 

Somewhere  in  Egypt,  near  a  pyramid  ; 

And  in  my  dream  I  heard  black  Memnon  playing : 

He  stood  twelve  cubit's  high,  and,  with  a  voice 

Like  thunder  when  it  breaks  on  hollow  shores, 

Calle<J  on  the  sky,  which  answered.     Then  he  awoke 

His  marble  music,  and  with  grave  sweet  sounds 

Enchanted  from  her  chamber  the  coy  Dawn. 

He  sang,  too  —  O  such  songs !     Silence,  who  lay 

Torpid  upon  those  wastes  of  level  sand, 

Stirred  and  grew  human  ;  from  its  shuddering  reeds 

Stole  forth  the  crocodile,  and  birds  of  blood 

Hung  listening  in  the  rich  and  burning  air. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Didst  dream  all  this  ? 

MICHAEL. 

Ay,  RafTaelle  ;  and  so  gazed 

On  Theban  Memnon,  that  his  image  sunk 

Fixed  in  my  brain.     Lo  !  this  is  he  thou  look'st  on. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Sad  watcher  of  the  hours,  which  slowly  creep 
Through  melancholy  nights  and  desert  days ! 
His  look  oppresses  me.  —  What's  he  1  ah,  ha  ! 
'Tis  Faunus,  is  it  not  ?     That  wreath  of  leaves, 


170  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

The  crook,  the  panther  skin,  the  laughing  eyes, 
And  the  round  cheek  —  or  Bacchus  ?     Ah,  'tis  he. 

MICHAEL. 
No  ;  'tis  the  wood-god  Faunus.^ 

RAFFAELLE. 

A  brave  god. 

Stay  !  —  let  me  gaze  upon  it.     Thus  —  ay  thus  : 
You  drove  your  pencil  round,  and  thus  —  and  thus. 
I  never  stood  before  a  face  so  fine. 

MICHAEL. 

'Tis  a  free  sketch  ;  I  know  it. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Thou  shouldst  paint 

Gods,  my  good  Michael,  and  leave  earth  to  me. 

MICHAEL. 

The  children  and  the  women  thou  wilt  have  : 
What  need  to  ask  what  thou  hast  won  already. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Hark  !  there  are  footsteps  coming. 

MICHAEL. 

'Tis  the  Pope. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  171 

[PopE  JULIUS  II.  enters,  with  Attendants.] 

POPE. 
We  come  to  visit  thee,  good  Buonarotti. 

MICHAEL. 

Your  holiness  is  welcome. 

POPE. 
What  hast  thou  done  ? 

MICHAEL. 

Since  yesterday  ?  —  but  little,  save  design  : 
This  head,  and  that. 

POPE. 
This  takes  my  fancy  much. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Your  holiness  is  right. 

POPE. 
So,  who  art  thou  ? 

MICHAEL. 

'Tis  Raffaelle  Sanzio. 

POPE. 

Ha  !  and  who  is  he  ? 


172  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

MICHAEL. 

A  painter,  holy  father  ;  and  a  good  one. 

POPE. 
What  else  ? 

MICHAEL. 

Some  drawings,  which  your  holiness 

Will  prize  but  little.     I've  been  plotting  lately. 

POPE. 

Thine  is  a  tedious  art :  is't  not  so,  Michael  ? 

MICHAEL. 

'Tis  hard  to  compass. 

POPE. 

Um !  —  and  slow  to  live. 

MICHAEL. 

True  ;  —  but  it  lives  for  aye. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Right !   like  Renown, 

Which  clothes  with  sun  and  life  the  deeds  of  men ; 

Building  on  earth  a  world  which  may  outlast 

Its  strong  foundation.     Give  me  Fame,  on  earth ; 

And  when  I  leave  sweet  earth,  a  finer  sphere, 

Where  beauty  breathes  thro'  endless  summer  morns. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  173 

Let  me  have  voices,  too,  heart-wakening  words, 

All  touched  like  pictures  with  the  soul  of  thought : 

So  will  I  dream  over  Elysian  flowers, 

And  listen  to  music,  and  quaff  nectar-dew, 

And  lie  in  the  light  of  love,  and  paint  for  ever 

POPE. 
Peace  !  peace  !  what's  this  ? 

MICHAEL. 
He  hath  a  liberal  fancy. 

POPE. 
He  fills  his  horn  fuller  than  Fortune's. 

MICHAEL. 

Now  I  would  rather  lie  on  some  vast  plain, 
And  hear  the  wolves  upbraiding  the  cold  moon, 
Or  on  a  rock  when  the  blown  thunder  comes 
Booming  along  the  wind.     My  dreams  are  nought, 
Unless  with  gentler  figures  fierce  ones  mix  ; 
Giants  with  Angels,  Death  with  Life,  Despair 
With  Joy  :  —  even  the  Great  One  comes  in  terror 
To  we,  apparelled  like  the  fiery  storm. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Thy  fancy  was  begat  i'  the  clouds. 

MICHAEL. 

My  soul 


174  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Finds  best  communion  with  both  ill  and  good  : 

Some  spirits  there  are,  all  earth,  which  only  thrive 

In  wine  or  laughter.     But  my  nature  seeks 

Darkness  and  Night,  Power  or  the  death  of  Power  : 

A  mountain  riven  —  a  palace  sacked  —  a  town 

Rent  by  an  earthquake  (such  as  once  uptore 

Catania  from  its  roots,  and  sent  it  down 

To  the  centre,  split  in  fragments)  —  Famine  ;  Plague ; 

Earth  running  red  with  blood,  or  deluge-drowned : 

These  are  my  dreams :  —  and  sometimes,  when  my  brain 

Is  calm,  I  lie  awake  and  think  of  God. 

POPE. 
Michael ! 

MICHAEL. 

A  vision  comes  which  has  no  shape  ; 
None,  though  I  strain  my  sight,  and  strive  to  draw 
Some  mighty  fashion  on  the  trembling  dark,  — 
'Tis  gone  :  —  again  I  draw,  again  'tis  flown  ; 
And  so  I  toil  in  vain. 


But  thou  must  dream 

Again  for  me,  good  Michael.    We  must  show 

A  dream  that  shall  outlast  the  walls  of  Rome. 

MICHAEL. 

I'll  do  my  best ;  but  thought  is  as  a  root 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  175 

That  strikes  which  way  it  will  through  the  dark  brain  : 
I  cannot  force't. 

RAFFAELLE. 

What  wilt  thou  paint  —  a  World  ? 

» 

MICHAEL. 

Ay,  its  Creation. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Make  it  fresh  and  fair : 
Breathe  all  thy  soul  upon  it,  until  it  glow 
Like  day.     Clasp  it  all  round  with  Paradise, 
Color,  and  light,  green  bowers 

MICHAEL. 

I'll  make  it  bare. 

Like  man  when  he  comes  forth,  a  naked  wretch, 

So  shall  his  dwelling  be,  —  the  barren  soil. 

POPE. 
This  must  not  be.     It  is  not  writ  i'  The  Book. 

MICHAEL. 

Pardon  me  :  I  must  chase  my  own  poor  thought, 
Which  way  soever  it  turn. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Still  earth  should  bloom  ! 


176  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 


MICHAEL. 

It  should  be  like  the  time.     I  will  not  paint 

Antediluvian  Adam  when  first  he  sprang 

From  dust,  —  strong,  active,  like  the  autumnal  stag ; 

But  *  with  limbs  dawning  into  sinewy  strength. 

Nor  will  I  plant  the^full-blown  intellect 

On  his  bright  eye,  but  therein  gently  unfold 

Young  Adoration • 

RAFFAELLE. 

Right !     'Twill  grow  and  blossom. 
Now  for  thine  Eve. 

MICHAEL. 

Um !    Must  there  be  a  woman  ? 

RAFFAELLE. 

1  Must ! '  —  Thou  wouldst  paint  a  barren  world  indeed. 
Thou  never  lovedst. 

MICHAEL. 

I  have  :  nay,  I  love  still. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Whom?  what? 

MICHAEL. 

MINE  ART. 

*  See  Iris  picture.    *  Dominus  Deus  formavit  hominem  ex  solo 
terras.' 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  177 

RAFFAELLE. 

Why,  so  do  I :  yet  I  love  women  too. 

Thy  humor  feeds  one  sense  and  starves  the  rest. 

POPE. 
A  poor  economy.     The  youth  speaks  well. 

MICHAEL. 

Perhaps  :  yet,  the  first  man  was  born  alone, 
Companionless,  a  prodigy  like  Light. 
Birds  and  the  desert  brutes  awaited  him : 
Nought  else.     A  world  there  was  (fair  if  thou  wilt) ; 
Yet  Eden  grew  not  before  Adam  rose. 
-After  his  birth,  indeed,  we  may  have  wrought 
That  pleasant  garden,  wherein  the  Devil  stole 
And  tempted  Raftaelle's  goddess  soon  to  sin. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Stop  there,  stop  there  !     The  man 


MICHAEL. 

Alas !  he  fell. 

He  ate  perdition  from  the  woman's  hand. 
Death  for  himself —  (he  was  not  lorn  to  die, 
But  live  the  lord  of  this  eternal  star)  — 
Death  for  himself  and  race,  despair  and  toil, 
Peril,  and  passion  which  no  joy  can  quench, 
Grief  here,  and  Hell  hereafter,  —  these  he  earned. 
Shall  I  paint  all  this  truly  ? 
12 


178  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Why  not  ?  —  yes. 

POPE. 
Do  as  thou  wilt.     Man's  life  is  full  of  troubles. 

MICHAEL. 

It  is  a  pillar  writ  on  every  side 

With  fiery  figures.     Shall  we  show  them  "all  ? 

POPE. 
No :  the  first  fall ;  no  more. 

MICHAEL. 

Yes,  the  fierce  moral. 

That  let  me  do  ;  for  I  have  sketched  already 

Dark  phantasies,  and  broke  up  graves,  and  blown 

(In  thought)  the  heart-piercing  trumpet,  whose  loud  cry 

Shall  blast  the  dreams  of  millions. 

POPE. 
What  is  this  ? 

RAFFAELLE. 

The  Judgment. 

MICHAEL. 

Ay,  the  Judgment. 

L00k  !  —  In  the  middle,  near  the  top,  shall  stand 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  179 

Jesus,  the  Saviour  :  by  his  side  mild  crowds 

Of  followers,  and  Apostles  hovering  near. 

Here  shall  be  seen  the  bless'd,  and  there  the  damned ; 

Sinners,  whom  diabolic  strength  shall  hurl 

Down  to  perdition.     Insolent  visages, 

Born  in  the  reign  of  Sin,  shall  flesh  their  fangs  ; 

Dwarfs,  devils,  and  hideous  things,  and  brute  abortions  ; 

Some  who  make  sick  the  moon,  and  some  who  hide 

Their  monstrous  foreheads  in  a  reptile's  mask  : 

Pale  Palsy,  and  crook'd  Spasm,  and  bloated  Plague, 

And  Fear,  made  manifest,  shall  fill  the  wind 

With  Hell,  —  for  Hell  is  horror,  linked  to  pain. 

RAFFAELLE. 

No  more.     Thou  dost  bewitch  my  flesh  to  ice. 

POPE. 

No  more,  good  Buonarotti.     Now  farewell ! 

MICHAEL. 

Farewell ! 

RAFFAELLE. 

Thy  figures  haunt  me,  like  Disease. 
I  must  go  hear  some  Roman  melody, 
Accomplished  music,  and  sweet  human  words, 
And  bask  beneath  the  smiles  which  thou  dost  scorn.  % 
When  I  am  disenchanted 


180  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

MICHAEL. 

Come  again. 

RAFFAELLE. 

I  will :  farewell !     Father,  thy«  holy  blessing. 

POPE. 
My  blessing  on  thee,  son  !     Michael,  farewell ! 


[Exeunt. 


RAFFAELLE  AND  FORNARINA. 


RAFFAELLE   AND   FORNARJNA. 

SCENE   I.  —  A   Room  in  the  Palace  of  the  PRINCE 
C . 

RAFFAELLE.     JULIO  ROMANO.     (The  picture  of  '  The  Triumph 
of  Galatea '  unfinished. 

JULIO. 
I  do  not  like  that  head. 

RAFFAELLE. 

I  am  sorry  for  it. 

JULIO. 
It  is  too  sleek,  too  soft,  too 


KAFFAELLE. 

'Tis  a  woman's. 

Wouldst  have  me  paint  each  muscle  starting  forth  ? 
Or  play  the  anatomist  with  her  delicate  limbs, 
As  Michael  doth  ?     Thou'rt  wrong,  friend  Julio. 
Here,  in  this  brawny  back,  thou  seest  I  have  writ 
Strength  and  a  life  of  toil :  but  this  —  'tis  Love's ! 


JULIO. 
I  do  not  like  it. 


184  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

RAFFAELLE. 

I  have  done  better  things ; 
But  let  it  pass.     I  want  her  company, 
Without  whose  smiles  my  figures  turn  to  stone. 
Now,  look ! 

JULIO. 

P  faith,  that  is  a  dove-eyed  Triton. 
With  what  a  milk-fed  glance  he  winds  his  shell ! 
I  would  have  filled  it  like  the  North,  and  puffed 
His  broad  cheeks  out  like  two  tempest-blown  billows. 
This  fellow,  now,  is  like  a  loving  shark, 
And  wears  his  spirit  in  his  eyes  :  'tis  good. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Dost  thou  not  see  that,  throughout  all  this  story, 
The  spirit  of  Love  prevails,  in  many  shapes ; 
In  some  most  gentle,  and  in  others  warm, 
Whilst  in  one  form,  bare  lust  alone  is  seen, 
The  blood's  rebellion,  the 

JULIO. 

I  understand  not. 
Would  all  were  such  as  he  ! 

RAFFAELLE. 

Pshaw  !  I  had  better 

Have  drawn  a  herd  of  bulls  lowing  about 

One  white  Europa,  than  another  such. 


RAFFAELLE  AND  FORNARINA.          185 

Julio,  I  tire.     I  loathe  this  gaudy  prison  ; 
I'll  paint  no  more,  unless  my  love  be  present. 

JULIO. 
If  thou  darest  trust  thy  Venus  in  my  sight 

RAFFAELLE. 

Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

JULIO. 
Then  why  not  bring  her  hither  ? 

RAFFAELLE. 

Hither?  I  will. 

She  shall  stand  here  before  thee,  plain  as  Truth ; 
Less  stedfast,  but  as  white  as  untouched  Truth, 
Whom  slander  never  blew  on.     Brace  thy  heart, 
Lest  she  take  all  by  storm. 

JULIO. 
What  is  she  like  ? 

RAFFAELLE. 

Her  eye  is  like  a  magnet. 

JULIO. 

What,  i'  the  Pole  ? 

Is  it  set  round  with  ice  ? 


186  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

RAFFAELLE. 

With  blushing  fire ; 

With  crimson  beauty,  like  the  death  of  day 

At  midsummer.     Her  look  —  O  Love  !  O  Love  ! 

She  treadeth  with  such  even  gr,ace,  that  all 

The  world  must  wonder,  and  the  envious  weep, 

Hopeless  to  match  her  ever.     How  I  pined 

Through  months  and  months  (I  was  a  fool  and  humble) 

Till  at  the  last  —  I  won  her  !    Dost  thou  hear  ? 

She's  mine,  my  queen ;  and  she  shall  shine  a  queen. 

I'll  clasp  her  round  with  gems.    Her  train  shall  be 

Rich  as  a  comet's 

JULIO. 
Art  grown  mad  ? 

RAFFAELLE. 

I  tell  thee 

I'll  pave  the  way  she  treads  on  with  pure  gold. 

She  shall  not  touch  the  trampled  earth,  and  do 

The  base  dust  honor.     I'll  have  Cretan  pinions 

Wrought  for  her,  and  a  barb  whose  task  shall  be 

To  outfly  the  wind.     Scarfs,  fine  as  the  air, 

And  dipped  in  Iris  colors,  shall  be  wove, 

In  Cashmere  and  the  sunny  Persian  looms, 

To  be  her  commonest  'tire.     She  shall  be  decked 

Forth,  as  she  is,  a  goddess ! 

JULIO. 
O  rare  Love ! 


RAFFAELLE  AND  FORXAKINA.  187 

What  a  brave  dream  thou  art !     Great  pity  'tis 

These  rainbows  which  we  weave  from  our  dull  thoughts 

Should  perish  in  broad  noon. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Once,  I  despaired  !  (Painting.) 

Ha,  ha !  and  saw  through  tears  and  cloudy  dreams : 
What  wonder  that  I  erred  ?     But  now,  —  'tis  day  J 


JULIO. 


Ay,  ay  ;  'tis  what  we  wish  it,  day  or  night : 
We  make  our  seasons  as  we  make  ourselves. 

RAFFAELLE. 

There  ;  now  I  toil  no  more.     While  I  am  gone, 
Do  thou  enrich  this  panel  with  some  tale. 
Let  it  be  gaunt,  and  wild,  dim  as  a  dream : 
'Twill  well  oppose  mine  own. 

JULIO. 
I'll  do  it.     Farewell ! 

RAFFAELLE. 

I  shall  be  with  thee  ere  the  sun's  awake. 

Be  busy,  and  farewell !  [RAFFAELLE  exit. 

JULIO. 

I'll  do't,  I'll  do't. 

—  Now,  shall  I  paint  the  devil  ?    Ah,  ha !  —  or  drag 
Misshapen  Chaos  from  his  dark  abysm, 


188  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

And  stretch  him,  like  a  giant,  in  the  sun  ? 

Or  shall  I  tear  the  blue  from  South  to  North  ? 

Or  paint  a  comet  plunging  through  the  wind  ? 

This  '  Triumph '  of  our  friend's  is  wanton  soft : 

But  there's  high  matter  in  the  se,a-nymph's  story, 

Which  might  become  a  painter's  pencil  well. 

He  should  have  drawn  the  Cyclop,  as  he  sate 

Uplifted  like  a  crag,  and  piped  his  songs 

Of  Galatea  to  the  watery  shores. 

Some  say  that  Orpheus-like  he  charmed  dull  stones, 

Made  ocean  murmur,  and  the  airy  winds 

Took  captive  ;  but  'tis  known  he  sighed,  and  sang 

The  deathful  ditties  which  belong  to  love  ; 

Calling  on  Galatea.     She  the  while 

Lay  mute,  and  closed  (if  e'er  she  heard  his  strains) 

Her  soul  against  his  passion.     Day  by  day 

He  sang,  and  like  the  mateless  lark  called  forth 

The  dawn  ;  and  underneath  the  burning  noon 

Held  mournful  celebration ;  and  at  eve, 

Fatigued  by  sorrow  and  wild  songs,  he  wept. 

I  cannot  fill  this  panel  as  he  bids.  [Sketching. 

The  PRINCE  0 enters. 

PRINCE. 
So  ;  where  is  Raffaelle  ? 

JULIO. 
Gone. 


HAFFAELLE    AXD    FORXARINA.  189 

PRINCE. 

Gone  whither  ?  gone  ? 

JULIO. 

Ay,  marry ;  Cupid  called  him,  and  he  went. 
You'll  find  him  by  the  two  great  lemon-trees, 
Which  sleep  beside  the  fountain  in  his  garden. 
H'  'as  brought  his  brown  girl  there  for  summer  talking. 

[Paints. 

PRINCE. 

'Sdeath !  what  art  thou  doing,  sirrah  ? 

JULIO. 
Um !  as  my  master  bade  me.     I  have  tried 

PRINCE. 

Tried  ?  ay,  and  failed.     Get  thou  to  Raffaelle,  fellow. 

Bid  him  sketch  for  thee  each  particular, 

'The  scene,  the  groups,  the  —  all.     I  will  not  have 

My  palace  painted  by  a  meaner  hand. 

Bid  him  come  here  (if  it  must  be)  with  his  —  mistress, 

And  paint  with  Cupid's  colors. 

[Exeunt. 


190  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 


SCENE    II.  —  The   Garden  of  FORN  AETNA,  in  the 
Suburbs  of  Rome. 

FORNARINA  and  Attendants. 
Will  he  not  come  ? 

FIRST   ATTENDANT. 

Be  patient. 

FORNARINA. 

He'll  not  come. 

The  moon,  the  feigning,  fickle,  slandered  moon 

Will  surely  come  :  and  every  trooping  star 

Be  present  at  his  post  in  the  dark  sky ; 

And  not  a  wind  that  wooes  the  orange  leaves 

Will  dare  be  absent.     But  he  —  false,  oh  false  ! 

Mark,  wenches,  if  ye  love  —  but  do  not  love  : 

Yet,  if  ye  do,  fetter  your  lovers  fast ; 

Bind  'em  in  chains,  for  love  will  fail  like  ice 

In  summer  sunbeams.     Trust  no  smiles,  no  oaths ; 

Bury  your  hearts  beneath  demurest  frowns  ; 

And  tremble  not,  nor  sigh,  if  you'd  be  safe. 

Sing  me  a  song,  my  child  ;  I  am  not  well. 

[Second  Attendant  begins  to  sing. 

FIRST   ATTENDANT. 

Hark!  hark! 


RAFFAELLE    AND    FORNARHSTA.  191 

FORNARINA. 

He's  here.     Mother  of  love,  he's  here. 
Come  !  come  away  !    I'll  fly  him  like  a  deer. 
Now  if  he  finds  me — Ah  !  thou  faithless  one, 

[RAFFAELLE  enters. 
Art  come  at  last  ?     I  will  not  look  on  thee. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Then  I  must  punish  thee  (kisses  her).    Look  up  ! 

FORNARINA. 

Thou  false  one ! 

RAFFAELLE. 

Did  I  not  hear  the  nightingale  in  the  thorn, 

Just  as  I  entered  ?     Why,  what  gloom  is  here  ? 

No  welcome  ?  none  ?  —  Ladies  !  who  make  our  nights 

Starry  as  heaven  when  no  cloud's  upon  it, 

Shine  and  smile  sweetly,  as  ye  love  us.     Shame  ! 

What  is  this  sullen  sorrow,  which  so  dulls 

Your  brightness  ?     Let  rain  fall,  if  rain  must  be, 

And  straight  grow  clear  again.     Look  up,  sweet  heart ! 

FORNARINA. 

Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !    What  seest  thou,  now  I  look  ? 

RAFFAELLE. 

A  world  of  mischief  in  those  night-black  eyes, 
And  peril  on  thy  mouth. 


192  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

FORNARINA. 

Now,  art  them  not 

A  most  false  lover  ?    Thou  didst  promise  me 

Thou  wouldst  come  long  before  the  sun  went  down ; 

And  lo  !  he  is  departing. 

RAFFAELLE. 

The  great  sun 

Falls  from  his  fiery  strength !     This  purple  light, 

Traveller  of  the  late  sky,  will  soon  —  how  soon ! 

Pass  to  another  world.     I  love  this  light : 

'Tis  the  old  age  of  day,  methinks,  or  haply 

The  infancy  of  night :  pleasant  it  is. 

Shall  we  be  dreaming !  —  Hark  !  The  nightingale, 

Queen  of  all  music,  to  her  listening  heart 

Speaks,  and  the  woods  are  still.     Sorrow  and  joy, 

Pleasure  that  pines  to  death,  and  amorous  pain 

Fill  (till  it  faints)  her  song.     What  sweet  noise  was't 

Came  up  the  garden  as  I  entered  it  ? 

FORNARINA. 

The  sweetest  noise  on  earth,  a  woman's  tongue  ; 
A  string  which  hath  no  discord. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Let  me  hear  it. 

Come  I  a  soft  song !  a  song ! 

SECOND   ATTENDANT. 

What  shall  it  be  ? 


RAFFAELLE    AND    FOB.NAHINA.  193 

FORNARINA. 

Sing  anything,  good  girl.     Beauty  is  beauty, 
Whether  it  vie  with  swan's-down  or  the  rose. 
Sing !  —  yet  not  sadly,  for  the  time  is  mournful ; 
Nor  yet  too  gaily ;  that  were  out  of  tune  : 
But  sing  whatever  tempts  thee. 

SECOND  ATTENDANT  sings. 
SONG. 

1. 

0  summer  river  ! 

Why  dost  thou  prolong 
Through  cold  nights  for  ever 

Thy  sad  forest  song  ? 

2. 

Thou  hast  warm  rich  hours, 

Wherein  thou  mayst  pine 
Underneath  the  flowers, 

Which  shall  ne'er  be  thine. 

3. 

Through  them  sing  and  run, 
Where  green  branches  quiver  ; 

But  when  day  is  done, 
Sleep,  sweet  summer  river  ! 

RAFFAELLE. 

This  music  falls  on  me  like  silver  showers, 
•      13 


194  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

And  crowns  me,  now  the  toilsome  day  is  over, 
With  sweets  akin  to  slumber. 

FORXARLNA. 

Many  thanks  ! 

I  think  Marcella's  voice  grows  sweeter  daily. 

RAFFAELLE. 

She'll  meet  pale  Philomel  in  her  haunt,  and  try 
Whose  tongue  is  fleetest.    Where  was't  she  did  learn  ? 

FORNARINA. 

Beside  a  river,  when  she  was  a  girl, 
Mocking  its  music,  as  the  cuckoo's  tongue 
Is  mimicked  oft  by  wandering  urchin  boys. 
Sometimes  she  cast  her  voice  upon  the  winds, 
And  then  strove  with  the  waters  ;  till,  at  last, 
She  sings  as  you  have  heard.  Thanks,  girls !  now  leave  us. 

[Attendants  exeunt. 

RAFFAELLE. 

How  soft  a  prelude  are  sweet  songs  to  love  ! 
I  should  be  humble,  but  those  sounds  have  crept 
Into  my  blood  and  stirred  it.     After  music 
What  should  be  heard  but  kisses  ?     Take  thy  due. 

FORNARINA. 

Tush!  tush! 


RAFFAELLE    AND    TORN  AKIN  A.  195 

RAFFAELLE. 

Come  nearer  to  me,  —  near.     Mad  Jove 

Ne'er  loved  white  Leda  with  such  tenderest  heart, 

Nor  Dis  (forsaking  his  Tartarean  halls) 

Pale  Proserpine,  as  I  do  rage  for  thee. 

Come  nearer,  thou  wild  witch  !  nearer,  I  say. 

Be  to  me  as  the  green  is  to  the  leaf, 

Crimson  to  roses,  juice  to  the  fresh  plant, 

My  life,  my  strength,  my  beauty. 

FORNARINA. 

I  am  here. 

RAFFAELLE. 

I  love  thee  ;  dost  thou  hear  ?    I  languished  for  thee. 

Ay  ;  I  have  left  sweet  praises  for  thee,  —  gold, 

Thrilling  ambition,  and  crowned  delight 

Which  waits  upon  bold  men  who  dare  and  do. 

Near,  near  ;  I  have  left  —  ha,  ha  !  —  a  Triton  winding 

His  brawny  arms  around  a  shapeless  nymph, 

God  Cupid  without  eyes,  fish  without  tails, 

And  Galatea  naked  as  the  dawn. 

What  is  it  that  I  see  in  those  black  eyes 

Beyond  all  others  ? 

FORNARINA. 

Love  !    'Tis  love  for  thee  ! 
But,  what  didst  paint  to-day  ? 


196  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

RAFFAELLE. 

A  team  of  dolphins, 

A  brace  of  Tritons  and  a  crooked  shell, 

And  some  thoughts  else,  —  which  I  forget.    These  things 

Shine  well  enough  for  men  below  the  moon : 

But  I  have  taken  flight  for  Venus'  aery, 

Where  I  must  rest  to-night.     Our  patron  prince 

Will  wax  most  wroth  when  he  doth  learn  my  absence. 

No  matter  ;  he  must  cool. 

FORNARINA. 

But  thou  hast  left 

Thy  friend,  thy  pupil,  him  —  what  is  his  name  ? 

Thy  uncouth,  clever  scholar  ? 

RAFFAELLE. 

Julio  Pippi. 

Troth,  he's  as  rough  as  winter.     Here  he  is  ! 

[ JULIO  ROMANO  enters. 
Why,  what  has  brought  thee  here  ? 

JULIO. 

Oh !  princely  frowns, 
A  vulgar  word  or  two,  a  Roman  oath. 
Rather  than  toil  for  these  same  well-fed  dogs, 
With  a  gold  badge  and  a  line  which  runs  to  Adam, 
I'll  visit  a  wolf,  and  starve.     Your  lord,  your  prince, 
Disdains  my  pencil,  sir  ;  commands  me  stop. 
I'll  paint  him  with  a  flaming  robe  in  Hell, 
And  give  him  a  dog-fish's  head. 


RAFFAELLE    AND    FOR^STAKINA.  197 

RAFFAELLE. 

Heed  him  not,  Julio. 

If  he  contemn  thy  labor,  he's  a  fool ; 

And  so  no  more  of  him.     Thou  shalt  paint  for  me. 

JULIO. 
I  will.     ShalPt  be  an  earthquake  ?  or  a  storm  ? 

RAFFAELLE. 

Neither ;  yet  something  which  will  suit  thee  well. 
Dost  love  a  marvel  ? 

JULIO. 

Do  I  ?    By  the  Gods, 

Who  dreamt  upon  Greek  clouds  Olympus-high, 

I  love  a  quaint,  wild,  wonder-stirring  tale. 

Let  it  be  Goth  or  Roman,  what  care  I, 

So  that  each  line  be  stuffed  with  witchery. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Then  this  will  suit  thee.     Now,  mark  well  the  story. 

—  'Tis  said  that  in  some  land,  I  think  in  Spain, 

Rising  upon  you  like  an  awful  dream, 

A  wondrous  image  stands.     'Tis  broad  and  gaunt, 

Tall  as  a  giant,  with  a  stormy  front 

And  snaky  hair,  and  large  eyes  all  of  stone  ; 

And  armed  (or  so  it  seems)  from  head  to  heel, 

With  a  crook' d  falchion  and  enormous  casque ; 


198  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

And  links  of  marble  mail,  which  once  were  brass ; 

And  spurs  of  marble  ;  and  marmoreal  limbs, 

All  bent,  like  one  who  staggers.     Full  at  the  East 

It  glares  like  a  defiance,  lowering,  bold ; 

And  scorn  still  lurks  about  its  ste*dfast  eye ; 

And  on  its  brow  a  devilish  courage  sits. 

This  statue,  as  'tis  told,  was  once  a  king, 

A  fierce  idolater,  who  cursed  the  moon 

And  hated  heaven,  yet  owned  some  hellish  sway : 

A  strange  religion  this,  and  yet  it  was  so. 

Well ;  he  was  born  a  king,  as  1  have  said, 

And  reigned  o'er  armed  millions  without  law  : 

He  sold  brave  men  for  beggar  gold,  and  stained 

The  innocent  youth  of  virtue  :  he  robbed  altars  ; 

Ate,  like  Apicius  ;  drank,  like  Afric  sands, 

Rivers  of  wine  ;  then  fell  to  frenzy.     At  last 

Swarming  rebellions  (like  the  Atlantic  stirred 

To  madness  by  the  bellowing  of  great  storms) 

Rose  up,  and  lashed  to  wrath  by  horrid  wrongs, 

Hunted  the  tyrant  from  his  brazen  throne ; 

Hunted  him  like  a  wolf  from  cave  to  cave, 

Through  rocks  and  mountains,  and  deep  perilous  glens, 

Day  after  day,  night  after  night,  until 

His  soul  burst  out  in  curses.     On  one  dull  dawn, 

Which  showed  him,  lurking,  to  relentless  foes, 

He  flung  some  terrible  reproach  at  Heaven  ; 

Laughed  at  its  God,  'tis  said,  and  cursed  the  Sun ; 

Whereat  the  broad  eye  of  the  Day  unclosed, 

And  stared  him  into  stone ! 


RAFFAELLE   AND    FORNARIX  A.  199 

JULIO. 

Oh !  this  is  brave. 

I'll  strain  my  wit  but  I  will  do  this  for  thee. 

Farewell  ! 

[ JULIO  exit. 

RAFFAELLE. 

Farewell !  Farewell ! 

[Exeunt. 


THE  FLOBENTINE  PARTY. 


THE  FLORENTINE  PARTY. 

SCENE  —  The  upper  part  of  a  Meadow  near  Florence. 
It  runs  sloping  down  to  a  River,  and  is  sheltered  at 
the  top  by  a  small  Wood  of  Olives  and  Chestnut-trees, 
and  ornamented  in  various  ways.  Fiesole  is  in  the 
distance. 

PAMPHILUS,  PHILOSTRATUS,  DIONEUS  ;  NEIPHILA  (as  Queen), 
PAMPINEA,  FIAMETTA,  EMILIA,  PHILAMENA,  ELISSA  and 
LAURETTA,  entering  as  from  behind  the  Wood. 

NEIPHILA. 

Come  on,  come  on !    A  little  further  on, 

And  we  shall  reach  a  spot  where  we  may  pause. 

It  is  a  meadow  full  of  the  early  spring  : 

Tall  grass  is  there  which  dallies  with  the  wind, 

And  never-ending  odorous  lemon-trees  ; 

Wild  flowers  in  blossom,  and  sweet  citron  buds, 

And  princely  cedars  ;  and  the  linden  boughs 

Make  arched  walks  for  love  to  whisper  in. 

If  you  be  tired,  lie  down,  and  you  shall  hear 

A  river,  which  doth  kiss  irregular  banks, 

Enchant  your  senses  with  a  sleepy  tune. 

If  not,  and  merry  blood  doth  stir  your  veins, 

The  place  hath  still  a  fair  and  pleasant  aspect : 


204  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

For  in  the  midst  of  this  green  meadow  springs 

A  fountain  of  white  marble,  o'er  whose  sides 

Run  stories,  graven  by  some  cunning  hand, 

Of  pastoral  life,  and  tipsy  revelry. 

There  will  we,  'midst  delicious' cates,  and  wines 

Sparkling  and  amorous,  and  sweet  instruments, 

Sing  gentle  mischief  as  the  sun  goes  down. 

Quick !  but  a  few  steps  more,  'round  by  this  copse 

Of  olives  and  young  chestnuts  (to  whose  arms 

The  vines  seem  clinging,  like  so  many  brides) 

And  you  will  reach't.     Ha,  stay  !  —  Look  !  here  it  is. 

FIAMETTA. 

Ha,  ha  !     Ha,  ha !  —  Look  !  how  Philostratus 
Buries  his  forehead  in  the  fresh  green  grass. 

PAMPHILUS. 

Hail,  vernal  spot !    We  bear  to  thy  embrace 
Pleasures  that  ask  for  calm  :  Love  and  Delight ; 
Harmonious  pulses  where  no  evil  dwells ; 
Smiles  without  treachery  ;  words  all  soft  and  true  ; 
Music  like  morning,  fresh  and  full  of  youth ; 
And  all  else  that  belongs  to  gentleness. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

ComeJ    Sit  by  me  ! 

DIONEUS. 

Sit! 


THE    FLORENTINE    PARTY.  205 

NEIPHILA. 

Sit  all ! 

DIONETJS. 

Thus  ;  in  a  circle. 

So,  that  is  well.     Now,  where  is  Tindaro  ? 

NEIPHILA. 

Ho,  Tindaro,  our  servant ! 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Laggard  knave ! 

Here,  fellow  Tindaro !     The  queen  doth  call  thee. 

TINDARO  (entering). 
1  Call  ? '  marry  !     Had  she  borne 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

How  ?     How,  bold  knave  ? 
Dost  affirm  she  cannot  bear  ? 

TINDARO. 

Not  I. 

Not  I,  by  Bacchus !     She  can  bear,  no  doubt ; 

Is  fruitful  as  a  vineyard ;  that's  past  doubt. 

But,  signer,  I  have  borne  on  these  poor  shoulders, 

Two  trunks  —  look,  look !  —  crammed  full  of  wines  and 

dainties ; 
Two  lutes  ;  a  viol ;  besides  some  ten 


206  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

DIONEUS. 

Tush!    Tush! 
Where  are  the  tables  ? 

TINDARp. 

On  Corvino's  back ; 

And  Stephano  doth  bring  the  boards  for  chess  ; 

And  Grasso  hath  the  music.  [Servants  enter  laden. 

DIONEUS. 
Place  all  here. 

Thus ;  in  a  circle.     Now,  awake  the  wines  ! 
And  spread  these  cloths  upon  the  level  ground, — 
Ho  !  there  :  take  heed !  thou  wilt  unstring  my  lute. 
Now,  where's  the  viol  di  gamba  ?     Place  it  here. 
Now,  get  ye  gone  unto  yon  chestnut-tree, 
And  share  your  wine  in  honesty.     Away  ! 

[Servants  exeunt. 

NEIPHILA. 

Here  will  we  rest,  with  all  our  court  about  us. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Lauretta  and  Elissa,  come  this  way. 

DIONEUS. 

Stay,  Fiametta. 

FIAMETTA. 

With  Pampinea  ?  —  Well. 


THE    FLORENTINE    PAETY.  207 

PAMPHILUS. 

Here  let  us  rest,  tender  Emilia, 
And  on  this  grassy  hillock  crowned  with  flowers, 
Rest  thy  white  arm.     Now  let  the  violets  gaze 
Their  fill,  and  drink  the  blue  light  from  thine  eyes ; 
Now  let  the  thievish  winds  their  sweet  wealth  steal 
From  the  dark  riches  of  thy  hair.     Look  up  ! 

DIONEUS. 
Fair  Fiametta,  dost  thou  hear  him  talk  ? 

FIAMETTA. 

He  sings,  methinks.     Or,  is't  his  voice  is  sweet  ? 

DIONEUS. 

'Tis  sugared  o'er  with  flattery.     Now,  for  me !      [Aside. 
The  nightingales  which  haunt  about  these  woods 
Grow  hoarse,  methinks. 

FIAMETTA. 

How  so  ? 

DIONEUS. 

They  lose  their  music 

(Else  say  their  skill)  before  your  honied  words. 

Tush !  what's  a  rose  ?     I'll  crush  these  gaudy  leaves. 

How  coarse  their  crimson  is  beside  thine  own ! 

Had  I  but  lilies,  I  would  burn  them  strait, 

As  a  white  peace-offering  to  thee.    Come  !  wilt  love  me  ? 


208  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

PAMPINEA. 

He  is  a  mockbird,  and  but  imitctes 
The  poetry  he  hears  in  falser  prose. 
Turn  him  to  me,  and  leave  him. 

FIAMETTA. 

No  ;  not  so. 

He  might  afflict  thy  leisure  with  his  groans. 

And  shouldst  thou  chance  to  love  him 

PAMPINEA. 

1  ?     Ha,  ha ! 

I  hate  him  like  a  poison  plant.     Methinks 

His  very  laugh  is  perilous. 

FIAMETTA. 

I  will  medicine 't ; 

Not  as  men  steal  the  poisonous  juice  from  serpents. 

I'll  let  him  talk,  till  his  last  drop  of  danger 

Be  spent,  and  he  is  harmless.     Look  upon  me  ! 

What !  wilt  thou  love  me  ? 

DIONEUS. 

Ay  ;  by  foam-born  Venus  ! 
By  all  these  clinging,  creeping,  curling  vines  ! 
By  Love  !  I  swear  it.     As  the  bee  doth  gather 
Wealth  from  the  rose's  lip,  I'll  steal  from  thine. 


THE    FLORENTINE    PARTY.  209 

NEIPHILA. 

You  sing  too  much  in  pairs.     Break  up  !  break  up  ! 
And  in  the  place  of  tender  falsehoods  tell  us 

LAURETTA  and  ELISSA. 

Ha,  ha  !     Ha,  ha ! 

NEIPHILA. 

What's  that  which  moves  your  mirth  ? 

LAURETTA. 

Ha,  ha  !     Ha,  ha  !     It  is  an  amorous  story 
Philostratus  has  read  us,  out  of  book. 

NEIPHILA. 

We  live  all  here  in  honest  fellowship. 
He  who  is  worth  a  jest  or  owns  a  song 
Holds  it  in  trust  for  this  community. 

DIONEUS. 

Ay,  no  close  purses,  sir ;  no  hoards  of  words*; 
No  merry  tales  :  nor  serious  ;  no  dull  songs, 
Learned  of  the  cuckoo  underneath  a  pine, 
And  buzzed  in  private  to  a  crazed  guitar. 
All  is  our  own.     So,  speak,  Philostratus  ! 

NEIPHILA. 

Speak,  without  more  ado. 
14 


210  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

I  ?     By  my  soul, 

I  never  tried  to  tell  a  tale  till  now. 

I  cannot  tell  it ;  nay,  if  you  will  have 

A  maudlin  story,  why  prepare  your  eyes  ; 

We'll  have  salt  tears  enow.     Once  on  a  time 

FIAMETTA. 

Out  on  thee.     That's  a  schoolboy's  stale  beginning. 

DIONEUS. 

I've  heard  it  fifteen  hundred  times  and  more. 
Beggars  unfold  such  'neath  our  valets'  windows 
At  a  penny  apiece,  and  they  account  it  dear. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

I  knew  how  it  would  be.     So,  come  !     I'll  drink 
A  bumper  of  Greek  wine  and  hold  my  peace. 

LAURETTA. 

What !  vanquished  by  a  man  that  wears  slashed  satin  ? 
Tush  !  thou  a  soldier  !     Talk  no  more  of  love. 

PIIILOSTRATUS. 

I'll  tell  it,  by  these  teeth  !     Once  on  a  time  ! 
(Oh  !  you  are  still  now)  ;  well,  once  on  a  time, 
There  lived  a  king 

DIONEUS. 
Prodigious. 


THE    FLORENTINE    PARTY.  211 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

An  old  man, 

Who  wedded  (somewhat  rashly)  a  young  wife. 

DIOENUS. 
I  cannot  hold  my  wonder. 

FIAMETTA. 

Peace,  you  parrot ! 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Well,  sirs ;  this  wife  being  young,  as  I  have. said, 
Loved  one  as  young,  a  black-haired  curly  man, 
Almost  a  Moor :  some  women  love  such  men. 

DIONEUS. 

His  name  ?  —  I  see't.     He  squinted  somewhat,  thus  ; 
A  pleasant  cast ;  go  on,  and  damn  thyself! 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

She  loved  this  curly  fellow  :  he  liked  her  : 

The  end  was  that  they  met.     Each  night  tall  Tormes 

Stole  to  her  chamber,  when  king  Philip  slept, 

And  lay  upon  his  pillow.     Some  time  Love 

Hoodwinked  our  ancient  king  ;  but  he',  being  prone 

Unto  suspicion,  as  most  monarchs  are, 

Soon  read  in  Helen's  looks  and  Tormes'  smile 

That  he  was  cuckold. 


212  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

DIONEUS. 

'Tis  a  filthy  name. 

PAMPHILUS. 

'Tis  so  :  but  we  must  fix  on  bad  and  good 

Names  fit  for  each :  we  wreak  our  scorn,  methinks, 

Too  much  on  words,  and  pass  beside  the  deed. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Well,  sirs :  Our  king,  being  bred  to  tricks  of  state, 

And  burying  anger  in  a  sure  revenge, 

Watched,  waited,  and  surprised  the  twain  asleep. 

Yet,  being  in  darkness  (lest  his  lamp  might  scare 

That  guilty  pair  away),  he  could  but  know 

Two  sleepers  lay  there  :  whether  girl  or  man 

Was  but  a  guess.     On  this,  to  mark  the  one 

Whose  hair  was  coarser  than  the  queen's,  (the  man,) 

What  does  he,  sirs,  but  clips  —  look !  shears  the  locks, 

(Then  worn  in  clusters)  close  into  the  crown. 

This  done,  goes  back  and  sleeps. 

DIONEUS. 
An  easy  fellow ! 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Well ;  Tormes  'wakes  :  and  with  a  yawn — just  thus  — 
Rubs  his  broad  palm  athwart  his  neck.     Behold  ! 
He  starts  :  the  curls  are  gone  !  The  queen  weeps  showers  ; 
Yet  suddenly  reviving  (while  her  dull  swain 


THE    FLORENTINE    PARTY.  213 

Puzzleth  in  vain,  o'er  this,  then  that  device) 
Bids  him  haste  back,  and  whispers  in  his  ear. 
He  laughs,  shouts,  dons  his  clothes  ;  and  to  the  room 
Where  all  his  mates  (equerries)  lie  in  dreams, 
Hurries,  and  closely  clips  each  sleeping  crown 
Bare  as  his  own.     Ha,  ha !    The  morning  comes, 
And  our  great  monarch  hath  a  crop-eared  levee ! 
He  looks ;  one,  two,  three,  all  are  shorn  alike. 
Scarce  can  he  hold  his  wonder  :  Yet,  (being  wise, 
And  wishing  not  to  spread  his  own  disgrace,) 
Quoth  he  — l  Let  him  who  did  this  act  be  dumb, 
And  do't  no  more ! '  —  which  said,  all  go  their  way. 
Then,  as  the  story  goes,  by  slow  degrees, 
The  king  forgave  his  queen  :  this  touched  her  heart ; 
And  she  requitted  him,  at  last,  with  love. 

DIONEUS. 
I  do  not  like  your  story. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

'Tis  not  mine ; 

But  an  old  record  of  a  woman's  wit. 

The  moral 

DIONEUS. 

We'll  forgive't.     Some  other  time, 

A  twelvemonth  hence,  when  we  have  had  our  suppers, 

We'll  sleep  upon't,  while  thou  unravell'st  it. 


214  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

NEIPHILA. 

Now,  who  drinks  Aleatico  ? 

PAMPHILUS,    DIONEUS,  and  PHILOSTRATUS. 

I— I— I — 

NEIPHILA. 

Here,  ladies,  here  are  grapes,  (spread  out  your  arms !) 
Purple  as  evening ;  figs,  and  cakes,  whose  tops 

Make  dull  the  whiteness  of  our  frosted  Alps. 

[They  feast. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Bring  here  the  foreign  wines  !  [To  the  Servants. 

NEIPHILA. 

Will  none  enrich 

Our  banquet  with  a  song  ?    O  shame  upon  ye ! 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

More  wine !  Bring  foreign  wines !  Now,  which  shall't  be  ? 

[Sings. 

Shall't  be  Claret,  flushing, 

Dark  as  rubies,  red  ? 
Or  Burgundy,  all  blushing, 

Like  a  bride  in  bed  ? 

DIONEUS. 

Let't  be  full,  and  rich,  and  bright, 
Dazzling  our  eyes  with  liquid  light. 


THE    FLORENTINE    PARTY.  215 

PAMPHILUS. 

Then't  shall  be  wild  Champagne, 
Which  soars  and  falls  again, 
Crowning  the  drinker's  brain 
With  dreams  all  night. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Or  Sherry  ?  sparkling  Sherry  ? 
Which  makes  the  drinker  merry, 
With  its  fine  Borachio  flavor  ? 

DIONEUS. 
Or  Canary  ? 

PHILAMENA. 

No,  that's  old ; 

So  is  Sack,  whose  kiss  doth  savor 
Of  the  wit  that's  past  and  told. 

DIONEUS. 

Let't  be  full,  and  rich,  and  bright, 
Like  a  gem  of  liquid  light. 

PAMPHILUS. 

Let  it  be,  (if  like  a  stone,) 
Like  the  diamond  alone, 
Dazzling  the  night ! 

[During  this  song  the  tables  are  removed. 


216  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

NEIPHILA. 

And  now,  sweet  sister,  where  is  thy  sad  story  ? 
For  sad  it  must  be,  if  thy  mind  doth  speak 
Its  natural  music,  and  no  erring  star 
Bewitch  thee  to  unhealthy  merriment. 

PAMPHILUS. 

I  do  not  think  with  you :  a  merry  story, 
Methinks,  is  harmless  as  a  tale  that's  sad. 
Yet,  speak,  Emilia ! 

EMILIA. 

Once, — in  Florence,  here, 

In  that  part  which  looks  toward  the  hills  Pistoian, 
There  dwelt  a  lady.     She  was  very  fair, 
Young,  rich,  a  maiden,  noble,  tender,  free. 

DIONEUS. 

O  Jupiter ! 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

O  Vulcan,  hammer  me  i'  the  head ! 
I'm  budding. 

DIONEUS. 

What !  i'  the  head  ?  he  must  have  horns. 
Is  he  a  goat  ?  or 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Peace  !  my  love's  a  budding, 

Crimsoning,  all  blushes,  like  a  three  days'  bride. 


THE    FLORENTINE    PARTY. 


217 


NEIPHILA. 


Silence  in  court !    Say  on,  Emilia. 
Was  she  loved,  this  lady  ? 

EMILIA. 

By  two  noble  youths  : 

Guidotto  one,  a  high-born  Cremonese, 

And  one  a  Pavian,  Mutio  Imola. 

Both  dwelt  in  Florence,  where  this  lady  came 

"With  old  Certaldo,  when  those  tedious  wars 

Which  vexed  the  city  slept,  and  men  were  free 

To  come  from  exile  to  their  natural  homes. 


PHILOSTRATTTS. 

Call  me  her  name !     My  head  could  never  bear 
These  vague  surmisings.     '  Lady ' — was  she  tall  ? 
Meek  ?  fair  ?    Give  me  her  name,  and  strait  I  see  her 
Else  she  is  but  a  sound. 

EMILIA. 

'Twas  Agatha. 

And  very  fair  she  was,  and  very  meek ; 
Tall  too,  and  bent  her  as  yon  poplar  bows 
To  the  sweet  music  of  the  river  airs : 
And  so  it  was  she  whispered. 


PHILOSTRATUS. 


What,  in  music ! 


218  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

EMILIA. 

Ay,  sir ;  for  what  is  music,  if  sweet  words 
Rising  from  tender  fancies  be  not  so  ? 
Methinks  there  is  no  sound  so  gentle,  none, 
Not  even  the  South-wind  young,  when  first  he  comes 
Wooing  the  lemon  flowers,  for  whom  he  leaves 
The  coasts  of  Baiee ;  not  melodious  springs, 
Though  heard  i'  the  stillness  of  their  native  hills  ; 
Not  the  rich  viol,  trump,  cymbal,  nor  horn, 
Guitar  nor  cittern,  nor  the  pining  flute, 
Are  half  so  sweet  as  tender  human  words. 

PAMPHILUS. 

Thou'rt  right,  dear  lady.     Pity  speaks  to  grief 
More  sweetly  than  a  band  of  instruments  ; 
And  a  friend's  welcome,  or  a  smiling  kiss, 
Outflourishes  the  cornet's  bridal  note. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Go  on,  go  on ! 

EMILIA. 

These  rival  youths  were  friends  ; 

Till  Love,  which  should  be  free  from  all  harsh  thoughts, 
Set  hate  between  them.     Then,  rank  jealous  cares 
Sprang  up,  and  with  them  many  a  sharp  device, 
Plots,  quarrels,  serenades,  wherein  the  sword 
Outmatched  the  cittern.     Each  had  potent  friends  : 
One  band  the  guardian  sued,  and  one  the  maid ; 


THE    FLORENTINE    PARTY.  219 

But  neither  prospered.     In  the  meantime,  the  youths 
Tired  of  complaints,  and  fights  which  bred  but  blows, 
Resolved  to  steal  what  fortune  held  from  them. 
One  bought  the  serving-woman's  soul  with  gold, 
While  mischief  won  the  man.    Thus,  each  had  help. 
But,  tedious  'twere  to  speak,  from  day  to  day, 
Of  feasts,  and  watchings ;  how  the  Pavian  frowned 
Like  sullen  thunder  o'er  his  rival's  hopes ; 
How  with  mad  violence  he  traced  his  steps ; 
Forced  ceaseless  quarrel,  and  out-clamored  all 
The  winds  in  anger.     Even  the  lady's  presence 
(That  altar  before  which  Love  loves  to  lie, 
Defenceless,  harmless,  all  his  wrongs  put  off) 
Was  sullied  by  the  Pavian's  contumely. 


PAMPHILUS. 
What  did  Guidotto  ? 


When  his  rival  left 

Certaldo's  palace,  lie  —  whose  gold  had  won 

The  lady's  serving-maid  to  help  his  suit  — 

Stole,  ushered  by  the  lamping  midnight  moon, 

Unto  her  garden,  where,  with  learned  strains, 

He  taught  the  echoes  all  to  speak  his  love ; 

Complained  not ;  smiled  not ;  but  with  tremulous  words, 

And  looks  where  sadness  strove  with  humble  hopes, 

Adored  the  lady. 


220  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Ho  !  I  see  it  all. 

I  see't.     What  woman  yet  did  e'er  withstand 

These  modest  mournful  gentlemen  ? 

DIONEUS. 

Hear  !    Hear  him  ! 
How  he  doth  trumpet  all  his  virtues ! 

NEIPHILA. 

Hush! 

Let's  know  the  rest. 

EMILIA. 

'Twas  as  yon  jester  says. 
Guidotto  won  the  heart  of  Agatha. 

NEIPHILA. 

Ay  ;  but  the  end  ? 

EMILIA. 

One  night,  the  Pavian  (warned 
O'  the  guardian's  absence)  burst  the  palace  doors, 
And  with  a  riotous  crew,  whose  chief  he  was, 
Stood  'fore  the  lady's  eyes.     Once  more  he  told 
His  burning  story «$  once  more  swore  to  die  ; 
Vowed,  menaced,  sighed,  implored,  yet  moved  her  not. 
On  this,  grown  desperate,  with  one  arm  clasped  round 
Her  fainting  figure,  he  bore  her  through  the  halls : 


THE    FLORENTINE    PAHTY.  221 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Ha,  ha !    Now  where's  the  modest,  moonlight  lover  ? 
The  twanger  of  guitars,  the • 

EMILIA. 

Peace !    He  stood 

Like  flaming  anger  in  the  ravisher's  path : 
And  drawing  forth  his  sword,  he  bade  him  hail, 
For  he  was  come  to  save  him. 

PAMPHILUS. 

What  did  the  other  ? 

EMILIA. 

Rushed  on  his  nobler  rival ;  swore  some  oaths  ; 
Frowned  and  denounced  destruction.     With  sure  hand 
Guidotto  warded,  and  returned  his  threats, 
And  for  each  blow  repaid  him  with  a  wound. 
At  last,  the  Pavian  fell. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

The  end  ?  the  end  ? 

EMILIA. 

The  end  was  (would  'twere  better)  such  as  happens 

In  common  tales.     'Twas  shown  by  some  strange  marks, 

Which  chance,  or  nature,  in  her  sport,  had  drawn 

Beneath  the  lady's  breast,  marring  its  white, 

And  by  a  story  which  Certaldo  told, 

(All  well  confirmed,)  that  Agatha  was,  in  truth, 

Own  sister  unto  Mutio  Imola. 


222  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

And  so  Guidotto  won,  and  there's  an  end  ? 

EMILIA. 

He  wed  indeed  the  gentle  Florence  lady. 

But  for  the  Pavian  ;  he,  (who  loved  so  well 

'Midst  all  his  anger,)  when  he  heard  that  tale, 

Betook  him  to  far  lands  or  savage  haunts. 

Some  said,  he  bled  a  martyr  to  his  faith, 

In  Syrian  countries ;  fighting  'neath  the  flag 

Of  Godfrey  or  the  lion-hearted  king  : 

Others  that  he  had  fled  beyond  the  woods 

Near  to  Camaldoli ;  fed  on  roots  ;  and  dwelt 

Somewhere  upon  the  unsheltered  Apennine. 

Certain  it  is,  a  hermit  like  to  him 

Was  known  thereafter.     In  the  caves  he  lived, 

Or  tops  of  mountains  ;  but  when  winds  were  loudest, 

And  the  broad  moon  worked  spells  far  out  at  sea, 

He  watched  all  night  and  day  the  lonely  shores, 

And  saved  from  shipwreck  many  mariners. 

At  length  —  he  died  ;  and  strangers  buried  him. 

DIONEUS. 
Had  he  no  friends  ? 

EMILIA. 

In  some  lone  cemet'ry, 

Distant  from  towns  (some  wild  wood-girded  spot, 

Ruined  and  full  of  graves,  all  very  old, 


THE    FLORENTINE    PARTY.  223 

Over  whose  scarce-seen  mounds  the  pine-tree  sheds 
Her  solemn  fruit,  as  giving  '  dust  to  dust ') 
He  sleeps  in  quiet.     Had  he  no  friend  ?     Oh,  yes ; 
Pity  which  hates  all  noise  ;  and  Sorrow,  like 
The  pale-eyed  marble  that  guards  virgin  mould  ; 
And  widowed  Silence,  who  will  weep  alone  ; 
And  all  sad  friends  of  Death,  were  friends  to  him  ! 

NEIPHILA. 

Is  there  no  more  ? 

EMILIA. 
No  more.     My  tale  is  told. 

NEIPHILA. 

Then  let  us  seek  the  fresh  green  river-banks, 
And  rest  awhile  under  yon  plane-tree's  shade. 
Our  fair  Emilia  there  will   touch  her  lute  ; 
And  with  a  song,  where  love  shall  sweeten  wisdom, 
Bid  us  take  comfort.     After  such  sad  stories 
What  can  be  heard,  save  music  ?  —  Follow  me  ! 

[Exeunt. 


THE  VICTIM 


15 


THE    VICTIM. 


....   [HIGH  in  the  parching  sun,  where  Ganges  old 

Sweeps  by  the  jungles,  and  broad  billows  scatters 

Upon  the  burning  shores  of  Hindostan, 

Rose  a  great  temple  ;  in  no  puny  age 

Fashioned,  but  built,  like  Babel,  'gainst  the  skies. 

Based  on  a  rock,  and  cut  in  granite  stone, 

Its  pillars  and  Titanian  capitals 

Heaved  their  enormous  bulks,  till  each  o'erlooked 

Wide  India.     To  some  God,  whose  name  is  lost, 

This  wilderness  of  stone  was  dedicate. 

Millions  of  quick-eyed  slaves,  with  dusky  brows, 

All  wreathed  in  white,  came  here  in  the  old  time, 

And  on  the  prostrate  marble  bent,  and  swore 

Allegiance  to  A  Name  !     Then,  amidst  storms 

Of  blood  and  tears,  'rose  Siva,  at  whose  feet 

Widows  were  slain  ;  maidens,  whose  hearts  were  warm 

With  summer  love,  old  age  and  infancy, 

Shrank  in  his  blazing  altars,  and  left  gold 

Unto  the  temple's  saints  for  priestly  prayers. 

Then  prayed  the  priests  ;  and  then,  while  darkness  lay 

On  the  dull  world,  the  fierce-eyed  Saivans  did 

Mysterious  rites,  and  their  nocturnal  songs 


228  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Went  sounding  through  the  long  stone-carved  aisles 

Of  Elephanta  to  brute  Juggernaut. 

And  soon  this  superstition  far  outspread : 

From  Oude  to  the  Deccan  ;  over  black  Bahar  ; 

From  the  Arab  Seas,  across  to  rank  Bengal, 

It  sprang  and  flourished  ;  and  wherever  else 

Base  human  folly  crouched  to  baser  guile, 

It  reigned  and  made  its  martyrs.  .  .  .  There  is  one 

Far  famous  in  its  stories,  from  whose  life, 

And  from  whose  death,  and  from  whose  after  fame, 

Some  learn  a  lesson.     When  the  droughts  are  great, 

And  their  squat  idols  sit  unmoved,  the  priests 

Call  on  the  saintly  Muttra.     To  please  Mm, 

They  burn  a  virgin,  and  scream  loose  love  songs, 

And  curse  the  Rajah,  Dhur-Singh,  long  since  dead. 

JZe,  while  he  lived,  wise  prince,  did  good  towards  all ; 

He  lived,  untouched  by  grief,  for  many  years ; 

And,  when  he  died,  left  children  virtuous, 

A  happy  land,  which  owned  his  rule  was  just, 

And  slumbered  in  the  Indian's  Paradise.]   .... 


THE    VICTIM.  229 


SCENE   I.  —  A  Garden,  near  the  Ganges. 
RHAIDA  waiting. 

RHAIDA. 

The  sun  has  set,  and  now  should  Meignoun  come, 
My  dear,  dear  shepherd !     All  day  long  he  leaves 
My  soul  to  wander  :  but  at  dark  he  comes, 
Lovelier  than  night,  to  his  poor  Hindoo  maid. 
Look !    On  the  holy  altars  flames  the  fire, 
Which  holy  priests  now  feed  with  myrrh  and  flowers : 
That  is  his  signal  —  hark !  he  comes,  he  comes  ! 
No,  —  no  :  O,  faithless  shepherd  !  'tis  the  rush 
Of  the  great  Ganges,  who  doth  love  her  lord 
(Her  ocean  husband)  more  than  thou  lov'st  me. 
Fond  fool,  he  will  not  come  ;  yet,  soft !  —  he's  here  ! 
He  is  here,  and  I  wrong  him.     O  Meignoun  ! 

MEIGNOUN  enters. 

MEIGNOUN. 

My  heart !  my  dear  one  ! 

RHAIDA. 

My  —  my  own  !  (falls  into  his  arms.)     You're  come  ? 


230  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

MEIGNOUN. 

Ay,  but  I  soon  must  leave  thee,  sweet  Hindoo ! 
With  scarce  a  kiss  from  thy  rich  lip,  must  I 
Seek  the  great  City.     Even  now,  my  friends 
Are  waiting  for  me  on  the  river  banks  ; 
And  I  must  sigh  —  farewell ! 

RHAIDA. 

Go,  —  go  :  farewell ! 

MEIGNOUN. 

To-morrow  I  will  come  to  thee  betimes ; 
And  I  will  bring  with  me  the  nuptial  lamp, 
And  the  bright  bridal  jewels 

RHAIDA. 

Come  thyself. 

O  thou,  who  art  beyond  all  gems  to  me  ! 

Bring  me  thyself;  or  (if  thou  wilt  aught  else), 

E'en  bring  one  lotus  lily  for  my  breast, 

And  swear  upon't  that  thou  wilt  love  me  ever. 

MEIGNOUN. 

I'll  do't,  thou  jealous  girl ;  yet  I  have  sworn, 
A  thousand  times  already,  'neath  the  stars, 
To  love,  —  and  I  do  love  thee. 

RIIAIDA. 

Swear't  again. 

Never  too  often  can  a  lover  vow : 

So  once  more  vow,  and  I  will  list  to  thee 

With  ears  more  greedy  than  the  mother  owns, 


THE    VICTIM.  231 

When  on  her  first-born's  stammering  words  she  hangs, 
And  thanks  sweet  Heaven  for  Music.    Wilt  thou  love  me  ? 

MEIGNOUN. 
I  love  thee  now. 

KHAIDA. 

But  ever,  ever  love  me  ? 

MEIGNOUN. 

I  love  thee,  and  will  love  thee.     Tush !  not  so 
The  summer  nightingale  shall  haunt  the  rose  : 
Not  Kunya  (when  'mongst  village  maids  he  dwelt, 
In  his  bright  boyhood,  and  did  woo,  and  win) 
E'er  loved  as  I  will  love.     I'll  bear  thee  hence 
A  bride  more  envied 

RHAIDA. 

0  thou  vain,  vain  shepherd  ! 

MEIGNOUN. 

How  ?  —  but  you  chide  me  well :  I  had  forgot. 

1  dreamt,  as  oft  I  dream,  and  sometimes  hope. 
A  shepherd  ?  that  was  true  ;  yet,  in  past  times, 
The  shepherd's  sword  hath  cut  its  way  to  power. 
I'll  come  and  re-demand  thee. 

RHAIDA. 

'Twill  be  vain. 

And  yet,  if  thou  wouldst  cast  this  cloak  aside, 
And  tell  us  thy  true  name  and  parentage 


232  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

MEIGNOUN. 

Suppose,  sweet,  I  should  be  that  fierce  Decoit, 
Whose  very  name  is  terror  to  the  land, 
The  river-robber,  Kemaun  ?  — ;  Dost  thou  shrink  ? 
Fear  not :  your  Rajah  tracks  him  where  he  lurks, 
In  the  dark  jungles.     He  has  braved  the  law  ; 
And  powerful  hands  are  on  him. 

RHAIDA. 

Let  him  go. 

You  smile  !  ha !  what  art  thou  ?    Speak !    Have  I  given 

My  whole  heart  to 

MEIGNOUN. 

A  robber  ?     Dream  not  so. 

Yet,  —  being  a  robber,  he's  a  potent  one  ; 

Next  to  your  prince  in  power.     But  I  must  go  : 

And,  ere  I  go,  one  word  of  your  fierce  father : 

I  swore  (as  thou  rememberest)  to  come  back, 

And  from  his  lips  force  gentler  words.     Now,  mark ! 

That  hour  is  near  ;  and,  for  the  subtle  slave 

Who  whispered  lies  in  thy  harsh  father's  ear, 

I'll  bring  his  fit  reward. 

RHAIDA. 

He  is  too  base 

MEIGNOUX. 

For  anger,  not  for  justice.     Then,  he  mocks 
At  my  revenge  !     Methinks  he  laughs  too  early. 


THE    YICTIM.  233 

I  wait  my  time  :  in  hate,  sweet,  as  in  love, 

Thy  shepherd 's  constant.     On  black  Muttra's  head 

I  promised  vengeance  :  I  will  keep  my  word. 

[Voices  are  heard  singing  at  a  distance. 
Hark  !  my  companions  call  me  :  I  must  go. 
I  had  forgot  all  time  in  thy  sweet  presence. 
Farewell !     The  wind  is  rising. 

KHAIDA. 
Must  you  go  ? 

MEIGNOUN. 

Dost  hear  the  river  surging  'gainst  its  banks  ? 

RHAIDA. 

It  murmurs  like  a  tender  bride,  methinks  : 

"  Leave  me  not,  love,"  it  says,  "  so  soon  this  night, 

When  heaven  looks  kind  on  earth,  and  earth  is  happy." 

MEIGNOUN. 

The  storm  is  coming.     If  I  more  delay 

We  shall  not  'scape  the  ambush.     Love,  farewell. 

[Exit  quickly. 

RHAIDA. 

His  step  grows  faint,  —  and  fainter  ;  all  is  still. 

[Listening. 

MUTTRA  comes  out  of  a  thicket  of  shrubs. 

MUTTRA. 

So,  he  is  gone.     Come  forward  ;  all  is  quiet. 


234  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

The  ZEMINDAR  enters. 

ZEMINDAR, 

Now,  now,  where  is  she  ?     Ah,  look  where  she  stands, 
The  fool,  still  dreaming  of  that  base  Deceit, 
That  water  robber,  whom  I  more  abhor 

Than  poison  :  but  I'll  wake  her.     Girl ! 

[Strikes  her. 

RHAIDA. 
Ah,  father. 

MUTTRA. 

Ho,  ho  !  ho,  ho  !  —  (Aside.)  She  will  burn  famously. 
Those  snaky  locks,  with  which  she  snares  men's  hearts, 
That  tongue,  with  which  she  scorns  them — she  scorned  me. 

ZEMINDAR. 

What,  are  you  dumb  ? 

MUTTRA  (aside). 

Not  yet :  but  soon  she  shall  be. 
Her  ankles,  silver-bound,  her  round  soft  arms, 
Her  bosom  with  his  white  love  leaves  upon  it, 
All  shall  consume  :  the  priests  are  ready  for  her ; 
The  flames  are  hungry,  and  my  heart's  ablaze 
With  a  brave  fury.     ( To  ZEMINDAH)  —  Shall  loth  die 
by  fire  ? 

ZEMINDAR. 

Go  in,  and  wait.  (RHAIDA  exit.)  What  say  you  ?  both 
by  fire  ? 


THE    VICTIM.  235 

No ;  she  may  burn,  because  her  blood  will  wash 
A  dark  blot  from  my  house  :  but  he  —  come  near ! 
I've  dug  a  hole  beneath  my  peepul  trees, 
And  in't  we'll  tumble  him.     To-morrow  night, 
When  his  blood  beats  hot,  we'll  shut  him  up. 

MTJTTRA. 

Ho,  ho ! 

What  alive  ?  alive  ? 

ZEMINDAR. 

Ay,  full  of  life  and  lust. 

We'll  cool  his  dreams,  the  while  we  quench  his  courage. 

MUTTRA. 
I  love  thee  :  good  !    But  he  will  die  —  too  soon  1 

ZEMINDAR. 

No :  I  have  fenced  his  grave  all  round  with  stone, 
And  pierced  the  lid  with  holes.    Thro'  these  same  holes, 
The  music  of  his  screams  shall  soothe  our  ears. 
Three  days  and  nights  I'll  live  beside  his  grave, 
And  listen  —  while  he  starves. 


O  brave !  O  brave ! 

Come,  let  us  look  upon  this  pretty  place. 
Come  on,  come  on.     Beneath  the  peepul  trees  ? 
Was  it  not  there  ?     This  is  the  shortest  path. 

[Exeunt. 


236  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 


SCENE   II.  —  Same  place.     Time,  the  next  evening. 

MUTTRA  an d  the  ZEMINDAR  are  passing  along ;  KEMAUN  meets 
them. 

KEMAUN. 

Stay,  stop  !  a  word  with  you. 

ZEMINDAR. 

What  dog  is  here  ? 

A  Pariah  ?    Strike  him  down. 

KEMAUN. 

'Tis  not  ill  said  ; 

But  hard  blows  must  be  struck  ere  that  be  done. 
What  say  you,  —  shall  we  fight? 

MUTTRA  (to  the  ZEMINDAR)  . 
Peace  !  do  not  touch  him  : 
'Tis  a  strange  fellow ;  very  brave  and  honest, 
But  strange,  as  you  may  see.     He  brings  me  news 
Of  matters  afar  off,  and  (with  your  leave) 
I  would  be  private  with  him.     Farewell,  now ; 

,     [ZEMINDAR  exit. 
I'll  follow  soon.     Now,  then,  is  all  prepared  ? 


THE    VICTIM.  237 

KEMAUN. 

Who  is  that  little  withered,  winter  thing, 
Whose  knees  go  knocking  by  the  bamboo  stalks  ? 

MUTTRA. 

Tis  the  Zemindar. 

KEMAUN. 

So  !  —  I'll  take  his  money 
With  a  free  heart.     Nature  has  written  dupe, 
And  cheat,  and  miser,  in  his  reptile  looks : 
That's  well ;  we'll  strip  him  of  his  golden  skin, 
And  tie  him  to  a  tree.     His  girl,  you  say 

MUTTRA. 

May  live  ;  yes,  —  'twill  be  better  she  escape. 
(Aside.)  She  touched  my  humor,  as  she  moved  away  : 
Methought  her  walk  was  like  an  antelope's  ; 
Her  eyes  are  jewel-like ;  sweet  words  she  has  ; 
Soft  limbs,  bright  ringlets,  and  a  swan-like  gait. 
My  mind  is  changed ;  I  would  not  have  her  burn, 
Till  she  grows  old,  and  then — the  wood  may  blaze. 

KEMAUN. 
And,  if  I  rescue  her  ? 

MUTTRA. 

And  keep  her  for  me, 

I'll  show  thee  where  her  father  hides  his  gold. 


238  DRAMATIC    SCENES 

KEMAUN. 

Good ;  thou  shalt  have  a  third :  that  and  the  girl 
Thou'lt  fairly  earn  by  thy  bold  treachery. 

MTJTTRA. 

How,  treachery? 

KEMAUN. 

Ay,  —  oh,  that  offends  thee  ?    Tush, 

We  on  the  river  care  not  for  such  things : 

We  speak  our  minds  and  stab  ;  a  plain  good  way, 

And  saves  a  load  of  trouble.     Now  I'll  leave  thee. 

My  rogues  are  skulking  in  the  thicket  there, 

And  wait  for  orders.  When  this  horn  is  blown,     [  Gives  it. 

I'll  come  and  make  the  priests  stare. 

MUTTRA. 

Do  not  drag 
Their  curse  on  me. 

KEMAUN. 

Oh  no.     I  know  thou  art 

Half  priest ,  and  three  parts  saint,  and  all  a  knave. 

Do  I  not  know  thee,  Muttra  ?  thou  hast  done 

MUTTRA. 

Bad  deeds,  I  know't,  but  I  do  mortify 
My  flesh  with  fast,  and  score  my  back  with  stripes ; 


THE    VICTIM.  239 

Have  I  not  Iain  on  the  jagged  iron,  —  ha  ! 
Cankered  my  tongue  ?  and  swung  upon  a  hook  ? 

KEMAUN. 

Peace,  you  blind  cheat,  how  dare  you  brag  to  me  1 
What !  taunt  me  with  your  virtues  ? 

MUTTRA. 
I  have  done : 

Let  us  not  quarrel,  who  are  now  allies. 
Retire,  and  wait  the  signal.     Nay,  retire. 

KEMAUN  (aside). 

Now  let  me  have  both  gold  and  girl,  and  then 

[Exit. 

MUTTRA. 

The  cut-throat  infidel  robber !  —  he  is  gone. 
I  breathe  more  freely.     He  will  do  the  sin, 
And  I  reap  the  sweet  profit :  that  is  right. 
When  all  is  won,  I'll  lead  the  Rajah  where 
The  villain  hides  :  none  know  where  'tis  but  I. 

Messenger  entering. 

MESSENGER. 

The  priests  are  waiting  for  thee,  holy  Muttra. 
The  victim  which  you  promised  hath  not  come. 
Haste !  for  the  Rajah  will  be  there  to-day, 
And  sacrifice  to  Siva. 


240  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

MTJTTEA. 

Say  I  come.  [Messenger  exit. 

'Twill  be  a  glorious  day.  The  Rajah  come  ? 
Well,  we  must  wait  until  he  leave  the  shrine, 
And  then  do  our  design.  Now,  what's  the  matter  ? 

KEMAUN,  entering. 

KEMAUN. 
The  wood's  surrounded  :  half  the  Rajah's  troops 

MUTTRA. 

Fear  not ;  'tis  nothing.     He  does  sacrifice  ; 
And  all  his  Court  attend  :  'tis  ever  thus. 
Go,  hide  your  men  ;  there,  'midst  the  underwood  ; 
And  when  the  Rajah's  gone,  I'll  blow  the  horn. 

[Exeunt. 


THE    VICTIM.  241 


SCENE  TIL  —  A  Hindoo  Temple. 
Priests  are  officiating,  and  votaries  kneeling. 

CHORUS   OF   PRIESTS. 

Pour  the  attar,  —  more  and  more  ! 
Flowers,  and  leaves,  and  spices  heap  ; 
Gums,  and  oils,  and  odors  pour, 
Lest  the  burning  altar  sleep  ! 
Look,  it  sinks  —  the  holy  flame ! 
Why  is  not  the  victim  brought  ? 
Once,  if  called,  the  Hindoo  came 
Swifter  than  the  flight  of  thought ! 

A  HINDOO. 
I  am  here,  as  soon  as  sought. 

OTHERS. 

I  am  here  ;  —  and  I ;  —  and  I : 
There  are  none  who  shrink  or  fly. 

CHORUS. 

Why  doth  the  doomed  victim  stay  ? 
Full  of  sin  is  base  delay : 
16 


242  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Quick,  or  soon  shall  sound  a  curse, 
Amidst  the  thunder  of  our  verse. 
Call  her  with  resistless  voice ! 

j 

CHIEF  PRIEST. 
COME  ! 

The  ZEMINDAR,  RHAIDA,  and  MUTTRA,  are  seen  approaching. 

CHORUS. 
She  comes.     Rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

AIR. 

Soothe  her  soul  with  song, 
Like  a  silver  shower, 
Sweet,  and  bright,  and  strong : 
'Tis  her  conquering  hour  ! 
Let  the  music  steal, 
Like  a  hidden  river, 
Through  her,  till  she  feel 
Crowned  and  blessed  for  ever  ! 

The  ZEMINDAR  crowns  his  daughter. 

RHAIDA. 

Why  am  I  brought  here  ?  —  Ha !  what  means  the  crown  f 
I  am  no"  victim  sentenced  to  the  fire. 

CHIEF   PRIEST. 

Come  forward ! 

RHAIDA. 

Hark,  he  calls  on  some  one.     Hush ! 


THE    VICTIM.  243 

ZEMINDAR. 

He  calls  on  thee  ! 

RHAIDA. 

Ah !  no,  no :  kill  me.  not.  [Falls. 

CHIEF  PRIEST. 

Whence   comes   this !     Was   she   not  prepared  ?    'twas 

wrong. 

The  Rajah  will  himself  come  here  to-day, 
And  pray  for  aid  in  some  great  enterprise ; 
Till  then  we  shall  not  stain  the  altar  foot. 
Take  her  aside,  meantime,  and  counsel  her. 

[RHAIDA  is  taken  out. 

VOICES  without. 
The  Rajah  comes !  the  Rajah  ! 

A  PRIEST. 
Hear'st  thou  the  shouts  ?  he  comes. 

CHIEF   PRIEST. 

I  hear  them,  brother. 

The  bold,  freethinking  Dhur-Singh,  comes,  I  know  ; 

But  here,  in  our  own  temple,  he  must  droop 

His  lion  aspect  and  obey  the  law. 

Hail,  Maharajah  ! 

The  RAJAH  enters,  attended. 


244  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

RAJAH  (to  an  Officer). 

See  they  be  secure. 

Health  to  the  priests  of  Siva !    I  am  come 

To  share  your  holy  rites,  and  offer  prayers, 

Woods,  leaves,  and  spices,  (for  I  shed  no  blood, 

Save  that  of  foes,)  before  a  God's  great  shrine. 

Bring  here  the  basket.     Look,  I  offer  these  ; 

Myrrh,  aloes,  sacred  oils,  rich  sandal-wood, 

And  flowers,  which  you  confess  even  Siva  loves  : 

Take  them ;  and  pray  that  I  may  free  the  land 

(Else  all  at  peace)  from  murderous  men,  who've  turned 

Our  holy  Ganges  to  a  place  of  spoil, 

Robbed  the  poor  peasant,  slain  the  sucking  babe, 

Fired  happy  homes,  and  wheresoe'er  they've  been, 

Left  death,  and  violation,  and  despair ! 

[The  presents  are  offered. 

CHIEF   PRIEST. 

The  offerings  are  accepted.     See,  they  burn. 

And  now,  great  Rajah,  we  will  sacrifice 

A  living  creature  at  the  altar  foot, 

A  maid  who  ne'er  was  wooed,  betrothed,  nor  won. 

Go,  fetch  the  victim.  [Priest  goes  out. 


Doth  she  wish  to  burn  ? 

CHIEF   PRIEST. 

Her  father  brings  her.     On  his  house  a  blot 


THE    YICTIM.  245 

Hath  dwelt  for  a  hundred  years ;  no  good  stays  with  him  ; 

His  acts  ne'er  prosper  ;  he  is  loved  by  none  ; 

His  dreams  are  bad ;  his  peasants  starve  ;  his  friends  — 

He  hath  no  friend ;  and  therefore  (and  because 

He  loves  great  Siva)  doth  he  this  day  bring 

His  daughter  for  a  maiden  sacrifice. 

RAJAH. 

Methinks  himself  should  smart  for  his  own  sins. 
And  she  ? 

CHIEF  PRIEST. 

She  trembles.     Human  blood  will  shake, 
Sometimes,  in  dread  of  the  last  agony ; 
But  we  will  pray  such  fault  may  be  forgiven, 
And  bid  her  father  fast  for  one  whole  day  : 
She  shall  not  die  in  vain. 

Priest  enters  with  RHAIDA,  the  ZEMINDAR,  &c. 

PRIEST. 
The  maiden's  here. 

CHIEF   PRIEST. 

Come  forward.    Girl,  approach. 

RHAIDA. 

O  spare  me,  spare  me  ! 

RAJAH  (tenderly). 
Come  hither,  Rhaida ! 


246  DKAMATIC    SCENES. 

RHAIDA  (screams). 
Ha !  —  who  spoke  to  me  ? 

ZEMINDAR. 

The  Rajah  spoke.  (Aside.)  Methinks  I  know  his  voice. 

RHAIDA. 

Where?  Where?  The  Rajah?  Ha,  Meignoun!  'Tishe! 
Pm  safe,  I'm  safe  !  [Sinks  on  her  knees. 

RAJAH. 

Did  they  not  say  this  girl 
Was  unaffianced? 

CHIEF   PRIEST. 

Ay,  unwooed,  unsought. 

RAJAH. 

They  told  thee  false,  and  they  deserve  to  die. 
She  is  affianced ;  nay,  she  should  have  been 
This  night  a  bride. 

CHIEF  PRIEST. 

Whose  bride,  O  Rajah  ? 

RAJAH. 

MINE. 

Come  forward,  Rhaida.     Look !  I  take  her  hand, 
And  in  your  holy  temple  own  her  mine. 
Priest,  seek  some  other  victim. 

(KEMAUN  enters  by  stealth,  and  mixes  with  the  crowd. 
The  place  is  surrounded  by  troops.) 


THE    YICTIM.  247 

CHIEF  PRIEST   (pauses) . 

Mighty  Rajah, 

I  grieve  that 't  should  be  thus  ;  but  she  is  doomed  ! 

The  God  himself,  in  his  own  voice,  hath  asked 

A  victim,  and  I  dare  not  disobey : 

I  dare  not  offer  one  of  less  degree. 

RAJAH. 

Then  must  we  strait  do  justice.     Stand  apart !     [Kneels. 
Terrible  Siva !  if  this  maid  be  thine, 
Devoted,  and  not  slain  by  human  hate, 
Speak  to  thy  servant,  who  now  kneels  before  thee. 

CHIEF  PRIEST. 

Arise  !    The  marble  hath  a  thousand  tongues, 
And  might,  if  so  it  willed,  now  answer  thee. 


Peace,  holy  man,  do  I  not  know't  ?     The  God, 
Whose  strong  divinity  is  masked  in  stone, 
Is  free  as  air ;  his  spirit  still  hath  power 
To  will,  and  make  his  marble  limbs  obey, 
His  marble  tongue  to  speak.     Is  it  not  so  ? 

CHIEF  PRIEST. 

'Tis  so. 


Then  speak,  O  Siva !    If  thy  wrath 


248  DRAMATIC    SCENES. 

Demand  this  maiden  for  thy  altar  fires, 

Speak,  and  she  comes.     But,  if  no  word  of  thine 

Be  heard  in  answer,  I  pronounce  her  —  free  ! 

Behold  her  !    She  was  lured  by  falsehood  hither  ; 

And  they  who  brought  her  have  affronted  thee, 

By  offering  a  false  martyr.     She  is  wooed, 

Won,  almost  wed  ;  and  by  thy  awful  law, 

Is  unfit  for  the  altar.     Terrible  God, 

If  thou  delightest,  as  'tis  said,  in  blood, 

Yet  sure  thou  lov'st  it  most  when  justly  shed. 

Know,  we  have  now  a  victim  fit  for  thee ; 

One  who,  though  priest  and  saint,  deserves  to  die. 

Spare,  then,  this  innocent  maid !  —  Once  more,  if  thou 

Speak'st  not,  she's  free.    No  answer  ?    Maid,  approach  ! 

The  God  whom  now  we  worship  gives  no  sign. 

CHIEF  PRIEST. 

The  sign  you  call  for,  yesternight  was  made  ; 
And  I  did  see  it. 

RAJAH. 
Was  the  victim  named  ? 

CHIEF  PRIEST. 

No  name  :  a  victim  only. 

RAJAH. 

He  shall  have 

A  saintly  victim,  who  is  doomed  to  die  ; 

Doomed  by  the  law  and  me. 

[Claps  his  hands.     MUTTRA  and  KEMAUN  arc  secured. 


THE    VICTIM.  249 

PRIESTS. 

This  place  is  sacred,  Prince. 

RAJAH. 

Peace,  peace,  vain  men. 

Justice  is  done  in  heaven  ;  why  not  here  ? 

Bring  forth  the  prisoners.  Men,  stained  black  with  crimes, 

(All  by  confession  and  strong  proofs  made  plain,) 

Prepare,  for  ye  must  die  !    Kemaun,  thou  hast 

One  lonely  virtue,  an  undaunted  mind  : 

For  this  (so  much  I  reverence  valiant  hearts), 

I  give  thee  choice  how  thou  wilt  die  to-day. 

Speak,  and  begone ! 

KEMAUN. 

The  robber's  death  for  me. 

A  tamer  end  would  blot  the  fame  I've  earned : 

Death  and  renown  be  mine  ! 

KAJAH. 

Take  him  away.  [KEMAUX  exit,  guarded. 

For  thee,  thou  baser  villain,  death  by  fire  : 
That  is  thy  doom,  which  none  shall  mitigate. 
( To  Officer.)  Stay  thou,  and  see  it  done.    He  is  the  worst, 
More  base,  more  false,  more  without  touch  of  pity, 
Than  ever  I  did  think  a  man  could  be. 
One  more  there  is  ;  her  father. 

OFFICER. 
Must  he  die  ? 


250  DEAMATIC    SCENES. 

RAJAH. 

No  ;  let  him  live  ;  but  in  a  foreign  land. 
We  will  not  touch  a  hair  that's  kin  to  her. 

[Turns  towards  RHAIDA. 

And  now,  thou  tenderest  heart,  and  loveliest  bride, 
That  ever  made  the  world  more  beautiful, 
Bright'ning  with  smiles  the  aye-recurring  Spring, 
What  shall  be  done  with  tliee  ?    Why,  thou  must  go 
Unto  a  prison  ;  look  !  to  these  fond  arms  ; 
Whilst  I,  thy  Prince,  shall  feel  more  honored,  —  more, 
With  thee  thus  near  me,  sweet, — than  were  I  crowned 
With  garlands,  red  with  conquest,  or  now  hailed 
By  all  wide  India  as  her  chosen  King ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


THE  FIRST  DAY  OF  THE  YEAR. 

As  one  who  enters  on  a  road 

The  end  whereof  no  sight  can  reach ; 

Where  they  who  bear  Sin's  heavy  load 

Are  numberless  (so  sages  teach) 

As  sands  upon  the  wild  sea-beach : 

Where  Showers  and  Sunshine,  Night  and  Day, 

Like  Ghosts  go  glimmering  on  their  way ; 

Where  Friends  and  Foes,  where  Right  and  Wrong, 

And  all  that  doth  to  Life  belong, — 

The  shadowy  Past,  the  grim  To-come, 

Around  our  footsteps  sink  and  soar  ; 

Where  DEATH  goes  beating  on  his  drum  ; 

And  that  great  Sea  without  a  shore 

Gleams  in  the  distance,  while  a  Voice 

Cries  out,  "  Let  no  one  here  rejoice  !  " 

So  I,  now  blind  with  hope  and  fear, 

Enter  upon  thy  paths,  O  year  ! 

Thy  paths,  which  all  who  breathe  must  tread, 

Which  lead  the  Living  to  the  Dead, 


254  THE    FIRST    DAY    OF    THE    YEAR. 

I  enter  ;  for  it  is  my  doom 

To  tread  thy  labyrinthine  gloom  ; 

To  note  who  'round  me  watch  and  wait ; 

To  love  a  few  ;  perhaps  to  hate  ; 

And  do  all  duties  of  my  fate. 


MARCH APRIL MAY.  255 


MARCH—  APRIL—  MAY. 

MARCH  !  —  A  cloudy  stream  is  flowing, 

And  a  hard  steel  blast  is  blowing ; 

Bitterer  now  than  I  remember 

Ever  to  have  felt  or  seen, 

In  the  depths  of  drear  December, 

When  the  white  doth  hide  the  green : 

Not  a  trembling  weed  up-peereth 

From  its  dark  home  under-ground ; 

Violet  now  nor  primrose  heareth 

In  her  sleep  a  single  sound ; 

All  in  wintry  torpor  bound ! 

Not  a  sparrow  upon  the  spray ! 

Not  a  lark  to  greet  the  day ! 

Hush  !  —  I  hear  the  silver  rain 

Beating  on  the  western  pane, 

Singing  songs  unto  the  snow  ; 

Calling  earth  to  wake  below  : 

Ah,  sweet  April  comes,  who  never  comes  in  vain  ! 

In  the  Orient  —  light !     A  haze 
O'er  the  deep  night-blackness  strays : 


256  MARCH APRIL MAY. 

Thro'  the  cloudy  pall  it  poureth, 
O'er  the  mountain  scalp  it  soareth, 
Over,  through,  afar,  around, 
(Warming  all  the  heart  of  May,) 
Runs  the  light  without  a  sound, 
From  the  black  into  the  gray, 
From  the  gray  into  the  dawn, 
Silvering  all  its  folds  of  lawn, 
Till  it  bursts  upon  the  Day. 
Gaze  !     From  out  the  living  gold 
,  Knowledge  streameth  as  of  old. 
Gaze  upon  the  sunny  river  ; 
Heaven  is  bright  and  bounteous  ever. 
All  is  beautiful.  —  I  rise  ; 
God  is^  looking  from  the  skies ! 


THE    PICTURE.  257 


THE    PICTURE. 

UNDERNEATH  yon  antique  frame, 
(Carved,  observe,  by  dextrous  hands,) 
All  apart  from  meaner  things, 
The  thousand-guinea  panel  stands. 

Once,  in  the  great  old  Moro  palace, 
When  the  sunset  evening  bloom 
Flushed  the  Adriatic  waters, 
It  lit  up  the  golden  room. 

Strangers,  all  who  thronged  to  see  it, 
Vowed  the  soldier's  coal-black  eyes 
Burned  beneath  the  lady's  beauty, 
Glowing  there  with  sweet  surprise. 

From  his  earnest  gaze  she  looks ; 
Yet  the  passionate  words  she  hears  ; 
As  when  we  fix  our  eyes  on  books 
We  hear  a  tender  talker's  tears : 

And,  note  well  his  tremulous  mouth, 
Her  proud  sweet  smile,  patrician  skin  ; 
And  her  eyes  that  front  your  eyes, 
Reading  every  thought  within. 
17 


258  THE    PICTUEE. 

What  a  light  is  on  her  forehead, 
Shooting  forwards  from  the  dark  ! 
How  the  hues  of  queenly  crimson 
All  her  swelling  beauty  mark  ! 

And  the  streaks  of  rich  Sienna 
That  embrown  his  visage  dun  ; 
And  the  gold  upon  her  tresses, 
Blazing  like  the  western  sun. 


o 


—  Read  and  ponder,  gentle  Maiden  : 
And,  within  this  circle,  see 
All  that  was,  when  Love  was  master, 
All  that  is,  and  is  to  be  ; 

Beauty,  conquering  and  conquered  ; 
Strength,  all  strength  and  fame  forgot ; 
Pride  subdued  ;  Love,  Truth  triumphant :  — 
(Ah,  what  learner  knows  them  not !) 

And,  besides  these  truths,  'tis  whispered 
That  within  this  picture  lies 
The  painter's  story,  when  sublimed 
He  rose  with  Love  into  the  skies. 

What  names  they  had  —  these  shapes  we  look  on 
Whether,  constrained,  they  fled  of  yore, 
Far  away  to  Isle  enchanted, 
Idling  on  some  faery  shore  ; 


THE    PICTUKE.  259 

Or  in  dark  and  toilsome  cities, 

Or  within  some  sparry  cell, 

In  a  sunset  wilderness, 

Loved  their  lives  out,  —  none  can  tell. 

But  our  dreams,  which  lift  the  Future 

And  the  Present  into  light, 

Give  unto  the  Past  a  glory 

That  leaves  the  lovers'  fortunes  bright. 


260  THE    PARISH    DOCTOR. 


THE   PARISH  DOCTOR. 

I  TRAVEL  by  day,  I  travel  by  night, 
In  the  blistering  sun,  in  the  drenching  rain ; 
And  my  only  pleasure,  in  dark  or  light, 
Is  to  help  the  poor,  in  pain. 

The  Parish  Magnificoes  pay  me  —  what  ? 
Where  it  only  the  money,  I  would  not  roam, 
But  enjoy  the  little  that  I  have  got 
By  my  own  fireside,  at  home. 

But  hunger,  and  thirst,  and  pain,  and  woe 
Entice  me  on  ;  and  they  pay  me  well, 
When  I  beat  down  the  devil  Disease,  you  know 
'Tis  for  that  my  old  age  I  sell : 

I  give  up  my  comfort,  my  crusty  wine, 
My  slippers,  my  books,  and  my  easy  chair, 
And  go  where  the  paupers  starve  and  pine, 
With  help.     But  for  this  I  swear, 

I  would  spit  on  the  fat  false  bloated  men 
Who  strut  on  the  vestry  floor, 
And  toss  '^m  their  twenty  pounds  again, 
That  they  squeeze  from  the  parish  poor. 


THE    PARISH    DOCTOR.  261 

Last  night,  —  O  God,  what  a  night  of  cold, 
With  the  wind  and  the  stinging  hail ! 
What  a  night  for  a  lamb  that  had  left  the  fold, 
And  had  wandered,  weak  and  pale  ! 

Yet  there  she  was,  —  on  the  midnight  thrown 
By  the  rascal  that  bars  the  gate, 
And  the  lying  relieving  officer  (known 
For  relieving  —  the  parish  rate  !). 

These  knaves,  they  are  high  in  their  masters'  books. 
Have  a  sum  upon  which  they  draw 
To  keep  up  their  credit ;  though  each  one  looks 
To  be  sure  he's  within  the  law. 

But  gentleness,  kindness,  love  —  that  lend 
To  the  gifts  of  the  heart  a  grace, 
They  reach  not  the  pauper  that  has  no  friend, 
They  suit  not  the  guardian's  place. 

Their  duty  is  known  ;  —  to  keep  down  the  rate, 
And  the  poor  within  proper  bounds, 
And  to  pay  (that  he  may  not  be  too  elate) 
The  Doctor  with  —  Twenty  pounds  ! 


262 


ABOVE    AND    BELOW. 


ABOVE    AND   BELOW. 

LOOK  forth,  into  the  azure  there  ! 
Gaze  your  soul  out  upon  the  blue ! 
Now,  tell  me  what  you  see  so  fair, 
And  what  that  fair  reflects  on  you  ? 

Is  Love  there  ?  —  Joy  ?  —  is  airy  Hope  ? 
Dwell  they  all  there  amid  the  stars  ? 
Or,  are  they  still  beyond  your  scope, 
Which  some  terrestrial  error  bars  ? 

You  see  nought :  but,  you  say,  some  dream 
Inspires  you  to  sublimer  ends ; 
And  that  you  rise  up  to  a  theme, 
Which  lifts  you  as  itself  ascends. 

Well !  —  even  here  the  lily  blooms  ; 
The  rose  is  opening  in  the  sun  : 
On  every  leaf  are  hung  perfumes  : 
From  every  branch  a  wreath  is  won. 

Beneath  this  rough  rock,  stained  by  Time, 
The  sparkling  brooklet  runs  and  sings ; 
And  half-way  up  the  brambles  climb  ; 
And  from  its  top  the  acacia  springs. 


ABOYE    AND    BELOW.  263 

The  daisy  laughs  upon  the  sward ; 
The  violet  sleeps  within  her  nest : 
Ah  !  —  Nature  ever  yields  reward 
To  him  who  seeks,  and  loves  her  best. 

Now,  for  a  moment,  turn  your  sight, 
To  where  this  tiniest  worm  expands 
His  emerald  armor  in  the  light, 
Like  a  dragon  from  the  haunted  lands. 

Look  thro'  this  wizard  glass,  and  own 
How  muscles  swell ;  how  pulses  beat ; 
How  Life,  that  wonder  never  known, 
Dwells  in  this  thing,  from  head  to  feet ; 

Dwells  in  those  parts  no  eye  can  reach, 
No  touch  —  the  tenderest  —  but  must  harm, 
So  infinitely  small  is  each  : 
And  yet,  the  heart's  blood  runneth  warm, 

And  appetites  pervade  this  shape, 
And  Love,  and  Joy,  and  Hope,  and  Fear, 
(Such  as  your  upward  eyes  escape,) 
God's  agents,  —  all  are  dwelling  here. 

Ah,  friend  !  —  not  always  gaze  above  ; 
But  cast  your  looks  below,  —  around  : 
Beside  you  dwelleth  Human  Love, 
And  Heavenly  Wonders  on  the  ground. 


264  A    GARDEN    SCENE. 


A    GARDEN*  SCENE. 

SINO  me  a  soft  love-laden  song  ; 
Tie  up  your  hair  in  a  tighter  braid  ; 
Here  let  us  lie  in  the  cypress  shade  ; 
Here,  where  the  feathery  fountain  sings, 
And  into  the  porphyry  basin  springs  : 
Sparkling,  flashing,  along  it  goes, 
Winding  round  by  the  sunny  steep, 
Whereon  the  quick  green  lizards  creep ; 
Hush  !  —  'tis  gone  to  a  deep  repose, 
There,  where  the  rough  rose-bramble  blows. 

Sing  me  a  song,  a  sadder  song  ; 
All  about  her  renowned  in  story, 
Who  died  to  cons  animate  her  lover's  glory  ; 
Took  on  her  soul  a  grievous  wrong ; 
Gave  herself  up,  all,  life  and  limb ; 
Trembled  a  little,  and  then  grew  dim ; 
Martyred  alike  in  fame  and  pride  ; 
Kissed  the  poison,  and  so  she  died. 

Whisper  another  grief  in  song. 
Where  did  Amalfi's  daughter  die  ? 
Why  do  Moroni's  turrets  lie 


A    GAUDEN    SCEXE.  265 

Shattered  by  Time  and  the  tempest  strong  ? 

Left  to  bare  neglect  so  long  ? 

Out  in  the  wild  Campagna,  She 

Wandered  to  save  her  soul  from  pain  ; 

And  there,  where  the  poor  and  guilty  flee, 

Began  the  labor  of  life  again. 

Her  tasks  are  over  ;  life  is  done  : 

She  fled  with  the  light  of  the  setting  sun, 

Into  the  azure,  far  away, 

Till  she  met  the  dawn  of  another  day. 

In  the  Negroni  gardens,  towers 

Many  a  grave  and  princely  pine, 

Within  whose  spicy  darkness  shine 

Lilies  and  creamy  orange  flowers, 

And  sculptured  creatures,  rare  and  fine,  — 

Marble  Deities,  each  alone, 

Born  in  heaven  and  struck  to  stone  : 

Thither  we'll  hie  in  the  dusky  eve, 

And  hark  to  the  measures  that  make  us  grieve ; 

Thou  thyself  shalt  unloose  thy  tongue, 

With  the  sweets  of  Archangelo's  music  hung. 

Now  let  us  end !  —  Yet,  listen  awhile, 

With  silent  heart  and  a  graver  smile ; 

But  back  your  hyacinth  tresses  fling, 

That  ravish  the  sweets  that  the  summers  bring. 

Hush !  the  fountain  upsprings  again  ; 

You  may  hear  the  words  of  the  silver  rain ! 


266  A    GARDEN    SCENE. 

What  do  they  tell  of?    Friendship  long, 

With  seeds  of  the  Love-flower  sown  among  ? 

Of  Fate  the  master  ?    Life  the  slave  ? 

Of  love  that  awaiteth  beyond  the  grave  ? 

So  let  it  be  :  —  My  dear  delight, 

Now  let  us  whisper  the  world  "  Good  Night !  " 


PHOYEUBIAL    PHILOSOPHY.  267 


PROVERBIAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

How  often  deep  wisdom,  my  Cosimo, 

Lurks  in  a  phrase, 
Or  a  proverb,  —  you  hear  it  and  hoard  it 

To  the  end  of  your  days. 

I  wish  I  could  pour  out  my  proverbs, 

Like  wine  from  a  cask, 
Such  as  Audit  vocatus  Apollo  — 

(Why  it  comes,  as  I  ask !) 

Let  me  try.  —  Do  not  smile,  tho'  I  borrow 

From  a  Pagan  or  Turk  : 
'Tis  the  end  (Finis  opus  coronat) 

That  crowneth  the  work. 

Even  though  in  my  course  I  should  stumble, 

Remember  the  text, 
Aliquando  dormitat  Homerus, 

And  do  not  be  vexed. 

Were  I  young  I  might  haply  do  better, 

Do  well ;  but  alack  ! 
Vestigia  nulla  retrorsum ; 

There's  no  going  back. 


268  PROVERBIAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

I  see  now  the  rocks  and  the  shallows, 

And  what  to  avoid  ; 
Vitanda  est  improba  Siren  ; 

But  the  young  are  decoyed 

By  idleness  ;  gentle  and  simple, 

They  bend  to  the  rule ; 
Super  et  Garamantos  et  IncLos, 

Each  playeth  the  fool ; 

He  who  labors  when  others  are  sporting 

Is  scorned  by  the  rest, 
Nigroque  simillima  cygno, 

Thrust  out  from  the  nest ; 

So  I  sank,  overborne  by  my  fellows ; 

Yet  wherefore  complain  ? 
Quis  tulerit  Gracchos  querentes  1 

—  I  cried,  but  in  vain, 

Manus  JKEC  inimica  tyrannis  ! 

When  a  blow  on  the  head 
Brought  me  down.     It  was  thus  my  ambition 

Was  conquered,  and  fled. 

And  now,  as  you  see,  in  my  verses 

Few  thoughts  are  afloat, 
Rari  nantes  in  gurgite  vasto  : 

Yet  men  of  some  note, 


PKOVERBIAL    PHILOSOPHY.  269 

Keep  me  sometimes  in  countenance,  kindly, 

With  impotent  rhymes. 
(Indocti  poemata  scrilent, 

Is  a  phrase  of  old  times.) 

Well,  well !     He  who  spatters  the  absent  * 

Deserves  not  a  friend  ; 
Semel  his  insanivimus  omnes  : 

And  so  there's  an  end. 

I  said  that  I  loved  the  wise  proverb, 

Brief,  simple,  and  deep  : 
For  it  I'd  exchange  the  great  poem 

That  sends  us  to  sleep. 

I'd  part  with  the  talk  of  my  neighbor, 

That  wearies  the  brain, 
Like  the  Rondo  that  reaches  an  end,  and 

Beginneth  again. 

What  books  we  might  spare,  my  dear  Cosimo, 

Paper  and  print ! 
That  volume,  for  instance,  with  nothing  save 

Sentences  in  't ; 

No  meaning,  no  story,  no  sentiment ; 
All  is  a  blank, 

*  "  Absentem  qui  rodit  amicum." 


270  PROVERBIAL    PHILOSOPHY. 

Save  the  title-page,  showing  'twas  writ  by 
"  A  person  of  rank." 

We  might  spare  the  too  deep  dissertations 

Which  nobody  reads,    - 
The  Essays  (on  something  or  nothing) 

Which  nobody  needs. 

We  might  spare, — ah,  perhaps,  our  own  volumes,- 

The  bookseller's  grief, 
Had  we  courage  to  spring  from  the  limbo, 

And  dare  to  be  brief. 


CELATA   VIRTUS.  271 


CELATA    VIRTUS. 

You  give  me  praise  for  what  I  do ; 
You  blame  me  for  what's  left  undone  : 
Alas  how  little  is  pierced  through, — 
How  little  known  of  the  lost  or  won, 
Under  the  Sun. 

My  dear  friend  here,  (would  I  possessed 
His  genius  —  subtle,  deep,  divine!) 
You  judge  his  motion  by  his  rest : 
You  sound  him  without  length  of  line, 
And  miss  the  mine. 

For  every  common  thought  I  print, 
How  many  a  better  lurks  unsaid, 
That  wants  the  stamp,  and  leaves  the  mint 
Unhonored  by  the  monarch's  head, 
And  good  as  dead. 

How  many  a  towering  tree  hath  sprung 
From  seeds  which  winged  wanderers  spill ; 
How  many  a  daily  deed  is  sung 
As  good,  which  hath  its  source  in  ill, 
Do  what  we  will. 


272  CELATA    YIKTUS. 

Our  world  opinions,  half  alloy, 

Pass  well :  the  rest  aside  are  thrown  : 

And  inmost  deepest  notes  of  joy 

Move  not ;  their  own  great  meaning  known 

To  the  heart  alone  !  - 

Let's  live  our  life  then  as  we  may ; 

Let's  think,  —  as  oft  we've  thought,  in  sooth, 

Careless  what  passers  by  may  say  ; 

Kind  to  our  kind,  in  age,  in  youth, 

And  true  to  truth. 


AN    ACQUAINTANCE.  273 


AN    ACQUAINTANCE. 

I  DO  not  love  you  —  I  do  not  hate  : 
A  something,  'tween  hate  and  love,  is  thine. 
I  have  given  you  —  such  as  it  is  —  a  piece, 
A  tittle  piece,  of  this  heart  of  mine  : 

A  morsel  of  gold,  —  but  massed  and  mixed 

With  silver  and  iron,  and  clay  beside ; 

It  softens  your  own  heart  not  a  jot : 

It  pampers  —  a  little,  perhaps,  —  your  pride. 

You  proffer  me,  now  and  then,  words  so  kind ! 
Yet  I  think,  for  a  purpose,  you'd  touch — just  touch 
My  throat  with  your  dagger,  —  then  heal  the  gash  ; 
Not  glad  —  scarce  sorry  —  you'd  hurt  me  much. 

You  would  strike  me  to  death,  when  the  ill  blood  flies 
To  your  brain,  and  the  riotous  pulse  begins 
To  beat ;  but  that  I  have  a  Secret  lies 
Down  in  the  dark,  amidst  all  my  sins  ; 

And  with  This  I  have  always  a  master's  power, 
To  keep  within  bounds  your  treacherous  will ; 
And  with  this  I  shall  conquer  your  evil  hour, 
And  tame  your  heart,  —  till  your  heart  be  still. 
18 


274  AN    ACQUAINTANCE. 

Therefore,  and  because  I  must  mix  with  men 
Who  are  scarcely  my  friends  (for  a  friend  is  rare), 
I  shall  venture  within  your  circle  again, 
And  be  seen  with  you  taking  the  noon-day  air. 

Thus  far;  no  farther.    I  give  my  love 
Where  only  my  heart  points  out  the  man ; 
Then  I  give,  as  I  give  to  my  God  above, 
Love,  intellect,  friendship, —  all  I  can. 

No  stint ;  no  subterfuge.     Time  and  thought, 
Heart,  fortune,  —  a  river  that  knows  no  end, 
All  (gold  from  the  mine  and  gold  that's  wrought) 
Belong  to  the  man  that  I  call  my  friend. 


EX    FUMO.  275 


EX    FUMO. 


I. 

FAU  down  in  the  depths  of  our  city 

There  hideth  a  lane  ; 
Dark,  narrow  ;  a  twist  like  a  syphon 

Runs  thro'  it  amain. 

Each  house  (once  a  palace)  is  blackened 

By  tempest  and  time, 
And  the  o'erhanging  stories  seem  watching 

For  underground  crime. 

Here  reigns  the  dark  Spirit  of  Silence, 

Thro'  evenings  and  nights, 
Save  where,  from  yon  attic,  there  peereth 

The  smallest  of  lights  ; 

Where  blooms,  on  yon  parapet,  something 

Half  flower,  half  weed, 
But  tended  as  gently  as  love  tendeth 

Love  in  its  need, 


276  EX    FUMO. 

As  mother  her  child  when  it  pineth  : 

There  dwelleth  —  ah !  one 
Who  worketh  and  singeth  and  worketh 

Till  down  of  the  sun. 

Well,  —  there  (where  you  see),  I  beheld  her, 

A  summer  ago, 
From  this  garret  here,  quite  on  a  level, 

Where  they  crowd  and  they  stow 

The  old  pictures,  and  tables,  and  ledgers ; 

I  had  sought  thro'  the  house 
For  some  proof  'gainst  a  recusant  debtor  ; 

Had  startled  the  mouse, 

Had  scared  the  blind  bat  from  her  slumbers, 

The  spider  had  slain, 
When,  lo  !  my  glance  shot  thro'  the  window, 

Where  pattered  the  rain. 

I  started  :  —  'twas  now  my  turn,  see  you, 

To  tremble  and  start ; 
One  look,  and  the  fiercest  of  arrows 

Went  right  thro'  my  heart. 

But  no  figures  !  —  they  tarnish  my  story  : 

I  loved  her ;  I  love, 
As  I  worship  the  mother  who  bore  me, 

The  heavens  above ! 


EX    FTJMO.  277 

My  God  !  will  she  ever  not  scorn  me  ?  — 

To  ask  her  for  more 
Is  to  ask  the  sweet  light  from  a  planet ! 

I  can  but  adore  ! 

Yet,  —  perhaps,  —  if  I  gave  (and  I'd  give  her) 

My  life  in  return, 
She  would  not  quite  scorn,  —  and  she  seemeth 

Too  gentle  to  spurn. 


II. 

Fate  has  blessed  me.     Look  !  Would  you  believe 

(I  am  such  as  you  see) 
That  fate  should  have  granted  the  angel 

That  sits  on  my  knee  ? 

'Tis  our  child ;  yes,  the  child  of  the  maiden 

Who  sewed  as  she  sung ; 
My  wife  —  my  beloved.     She  shut  not 

Her  ear  to  my  tongue  ; 

But  gave  up  the  wealth  of  her  beauty, 

The  grace  of  her  youth, 
To  my  prayer  —  to  the  pain  of  my  passion, 

The  strength  of  my  truth. 


278 


EX    FUMO. 


In  the  front  of  the  attic  she  dwelt  in 

Still  blooms  the  poor  flower  ; 
And  within  it  my  fancy  still  blossometh 

Hour  by  hour  ! 

Ay,  often  I  swerve  from  the  joys 

Of  my  garden,  with  gleams 
Of  the  sun,  to  go  back  to  the  blackened 

Old  houses  ;  —  and  Dreams 

Of  the  past,  when  my  life  was  a  struggle, 

Fall  thick  on  my  brain, 
But  tempered,  and  turned  to  a  pleasure 

That  springs  from  the  pain.  — 

How  strange,  that  the  time-smitten  City 

Should  harbor  a  place, 
Where  crazy  old  age  is  a  beauty, 

And  labor  a  grace  ! 

But  it  all  must  be  right ;  and  Love  thrives 

Most  in  sorrow,  I'm  told, 
As  the  lily  grows  fairer  and  fresher 

The  blacker  the  mould. 


PLATONIC.  279 


PLATONIC. 

WHAT  say  you  ?  — "I  like  yon'  lady  there  ; 
She  me  ;  no  further  we  intend, 
But  nurse  this  friendship-flower  with  care, 
And  live  and  die  — just  friend  and  friend. 

I  scarce  know  what  her  shape  may  be  ; 
Her  color  —  is  it  dark  or  light  ? 
Eyes  she  must  have,  for  she  can  see  ; 
Haply  you'll  tell  me  they  are  bright. 

It  is  the  MIND  which  I  admire, 
The  intellectual  virtuous  soul, 
The  pale  pure  splendor  without  fire, 
That  lightens  up  the  perfect  whole. 

In  what  fair  guise  the  soul  is  drest, 
In  rustic  beauty,  courtly  grace, 
What  heed  ?     I  care  not  for  the  rest, 
So  Intellect  hath  its  throned  place." 

—  Peace  !     Ignorant  of  the  good  and  bright  ! 
Blind  scorner  of  the  gifts  of  God, 
Following  whose  footsteps  came  the  Light, 
While  Beauty  blossomed  as  he  trod. 


280  PLATOXIC. 

Learn,  Virtue  is  not  more  his  own 
Than  Beauty  :  both  he  gave  combined, 
Knowing  each  could  not  thrive  alone, 
So  in  the  body  bound  the  mind : 

And  from  the  body,  and  from  its  brain 
And  nerves  come  issuing  (how  who  knows  ?) 
Those  pangs  of  thought,  of  joy,  of  pain, 
That  keep  and  crown  it  to  the  close, 

When  Life  (its  duty  done),  the  strange 

Consolidated  fabric  leaves, 

And  soaring  —  elsewhere  for  a  change, 

Again  bears  evil  pains,  and  grieves, 

Again  feels  joy  and  hope,  rejoices  and  believes. 


THE    SEXES.  281 


THE    SEXES. 

As  the  man  beholds  the  woman, 
As  the  woman  sees  the  man, 
Curiously  they  note  each  other, 
As  each  other  only  can. 

Never  can  the  man  divest  her 
Of  that  wondrous  charm  of  sex  ; 
Ever  must  she,  dreaming  of  him, 
The  same  mystic  charm  annex. 

Strange,  inborn,  profound  attraction  ! 
Not  the  Poet's  range  of  soul, 
Learning,  Science,  sexless  Virtue, 
Can  the  gazer's  thought  control. 

But,  thro'  every  nerve  and  fancy 
Which  the  inmost  heart  reveals, 
Twined,  ingrained,  the  Sense  of  difference, 
Like  the  subtle  serpent,  steals. 


282  QUESTIONS    TO    A    SPIRITUAL    FRIEND. 


QUESTIONS  TO  A  SPIRITUAL   FRIEND. 

WHEN  we  met,  do  you  remember, 

In  the  lane  ? 

When  our  murmuring  school  was  over, 

All  its  toils,  its  lessons  vain, 

All  its  pain  ? 

Since  those  half- forgotten  hours, 

You  and  I 

Have  trod  our  distant  paths,  asunder  ; 

Meeting  once,  —  you  to  die, 

I  to  sigh. 

In  your  home  beyond  Orion 
Do  you  feel,  — 

Do  you  mark  what  stirs  within  us, 
Strongest  in  the  common  weal  ? 
Gold  ?  or  steel  ? 

Love  ?  or  hate  ?  —  Alas,  all  passions 
Make  or  mar  ! 

Even  my  life's  at  best  a  struggle, 
Gaining,  whether  in  peace  or  war, 
Many  a  scar. 


QUESTIONS    TO    A    SPIRITUAL    FRIEND.  283 

But  You  !  —  you  whose  journey's  over  ? 
In  my  ear 

Whisper,  —  are  you  happier  ?  wiser  ? 
Better  ?  than  when  you  dwelt  here 
Without  a  fear  ? 

Does  the  Spirit  disembodied 

Think?  —  the  Mind, 

Dragged  no  longer  down  from  Heaven, 

Soar  at  will  upon  the  wind, 

Uncon fined  ? 

Shine  they  now  whose  light  on  earth 

Was  quenched  or  hid  ? 

What  of  those  who  dwelt  in  darkness  ? 

What  of  those  who  only  did 

As  they  were  bid  ? 

What  of  men  who  had  great  virtues 
And  great  sins  ? 

Show  me  just  the  point  and  turning 
Where  no  longer  Virtue  wins, 
And  Vice  begins  ! 

Do  you  love  the  hearts  that  loved  you  ? 

See  and  scan 

Our  poor  world  which  is  so  pleasant, 

When  unto  his  neighbor  man 

Does  all  he  can. 


284  QUESTIONS     TO    A    SPIRITUAL    FRIEND. 

Which  of  all  our  wants  and  passions 
Cling  to  clay  ? 

Tell  me  which  you  carry  with  you 
To  the  realms  of  endless  day, 
Far  away. 

Dives,  who  so  long  oppressed  you, 
Do  you  hate  ? 

Love  you  still  our  crumbling  customs, 
As  when  you  argued,  early  and  late, 
For  Church  and  State  ? 

Homer  —  Dante  —  world-wise  Shakespere 

Sons  of  Light !  • 

Do  they  stand  in  power  as  princes  ? 

Or  lose  lustre,  and  take  flight 

To  endless  night  ? 

Light  and  Dark,  and  Good  and  Evil, 
Heat  and  Cold, 

Pain  and  Pleasure,  Poor  and  Wealthy, 
Power  of  Virtue,  Power  of  Gold,  — 
All  unfold  ! 


AN    INTERIOR.  285 


AN   INTERIOR. 

UNLOOSE  your  heart,  and  let  me  see 
What's  hid  within  that  ruby  round ; 
Let  every  fold  be  now  unbound. 
What's  here  ?     Belief  ?  —  impiety  ? 
Good  —  bad  —  indifferent  ?     Let  them  be. 

T  see  the  crude  half-finished  thought  ; 
The  scrambling  fancies,  one  by  one, 
Come  out  and  stretch  them  in  the  sun. 
And  what's  that  in  the  distance,  wrought, 
Clear,  round,  prismatic  ?  —  It  is  nought,  — 

A  bubble,  swollen  to  its  best, 
Its  largest  shape  ;  yet  overmuch. 
'Twill  shrink,  I  fancy,  at  a  touch : 
Yet,  I'll  not  touch  it :  —  Let  it  rest, 
An  egg  within  a  viper's  nest. 

Hatched  into  life,  I  see  it  swell, 

Burst,  bare  at  once  its  poison  fangs. 

Alas,  sir,  on  how  little  hangs 

My  life  ;  your  doing  ill  or  well. 

Who'd  think  that  you  would  ring  my  knell  ? 


286  AN    INTERIOR. 

I  thought  you  were  my  friend,  the  flower 
Of  jolly,  gamesome,  rosy  friends. 
Well,  here  our  ill-paired  union  ends. 
I  leave  you  :   Should  I  have  the  power, 
I'll  sting  you  in  your  latest  hour. 

No,  —  let's  jog  on,  from  morn  to  night ; 
Less  close  than  we  were  wont,  indeed ; 
Why  should  I  hate,  because  I  read 
The  spots  kept  secret  from  my  sight, 
And  force  some  unborn  sins  to  light  ? 

All's  mingled  here,  if  keenly  scanned ; 
No  element  is  simple  found; 
But  mixed  and  massed  with  other  ground, 
Air,  —  water  :  —  So,  I'll  keep  my  stand, 
And  march  with  you  to  the  evening  land. 


SEEING.  287 


SEEING. 

THESE  are  the  marble  stairs  (come  on !)  which  lead 

To  the  famous  picture  galleries  ;  so,  take  heed  ! 

On  every  side  are  wonders  :  —  You  will  see 

Gems  to  make  rich  a  nation's  treasury. 

Our  Duke  who  owns  them  —  [Ah,  would  he  could  hear  ! 

Impenetrably  deaf!     Well,  we  must  steer 

By  sight.]  —  Observe  now,  where  my  finger  points. 

That  is  our  RafFaelle's  work.     See  who  anoints 

Christ's  feet :  How  humbly  the  poor  mourner  kneels  ! 

How  the  bowed  head  her  gentle  soul  reveals  ! 

[I'll  write  all  on  my  tablets,  as  we  walk.] 

—  There,  by  the  barren  rocks,  again  she  lies, 

Witching  the  admiration  from  our  eyes : 

That  is  Correggio's  desert  Magdalen. 

Above,  you  recognize  the  man  whom  men 

Worship,  old  Michael.     Those  gaunt  heads  in  chalk ; 

That  sketch  where  two  grim  saints  or  sages  stalk, 

Are  his.     Beyond,  you  see  a  blazing  Thought 

Of  Titian,  in  his  radiant  morning  wrought, 

Ere  kings  bent  down,  and  courtiers  sought  his  ear  :  — 

In  front  (Friuli's  mountains  in  the  rear) 


288  SEEING. 

Are  white  nymphs  revelling  in  a  summer  pool ; 
Some  on  the  moist  green  grass,  drink  in  the  cool, 
Not  dreaming  that  the  hunter  hides  so  near. 

You  grasp  my  arm  —  you  tremble  ?  —  Tush,  no  fear  ! 

Ah,  yes  ;  I  understand.  —  Gods,  what  a  face  ! 

What  eyes,  where  Grief  and  Love  thus  interlace  ! 

Around  that  brow  what  burning  locks  entwine ! 

The  mouth — it  speaks !   Those  mute  words,  (so  divine,) 

Have  told  the  lady's  story  many  years. 

Her  name  is  lost !  —  The  painter  ?    He  appears 

There,  on  the  carved  frame,  —  "Gibrgione."    None 

Now  dip  their  pencil  in  the  setting  sun 

Like  him.     Who  else  could  shape  a  dream  so  bright, 

Or  crown  it  with  that  sad  and  thoughtful  light  ? 

Ere  you  pass  on,  note  how  the  smile  just  dies 

Upon  her  parted  mouth,  where  Love  still  lies ; 

And  all  the  world  of  sorrow  in  those  eyes ! 

Good,  good !    I  love  to  see  those  tears.     They  tell 

You  understand  the  graceful  painter  well. 

Turn  hither,  now :  And  let  your  eyes  be  led 

To  Guide's  angel,  —  his  white  wings  outspread  ; 

His  hand  suspended,  —  there,  —  as  tho'  he  heard 

(Gazing  afar)  some  sweet  seraphic  word. 

—  How  the  boy  smiles  as  though  he  heard  the  song ! 

Well,  God  is  good,  and  human  faith  is  strong. 

Perhaps  he  feels  the  hymn  enter  his  brain 

Through  some  mysterious  paths  of  joyful  pain, 


SEEING.  289 

Which  to  our  grosser  sense  are  shut.     Who  knows 
The  hundred  cells  where  lurk  our  neighbor's  woes  ? 
Who  from  what  cause  each  graver  pleasure  springs 
That  soothes  him  when  the  raven  Tempest  sings  ? 
To  some  the  merry  skylark's  morning  notes 
Fall  sad  from  out  the  skies  wherein  he  floats  : 
And  some  delight  in  melancholy  sounds ; 
And  some  hate  music.     In  their  golden  rounds 
The  poets  go,  striking  the  vain  sweet  lyre ! 
How  few  they  charm,  alas !  and  none  inspire. 
Breathing  amidst  the  deaf,  who  hear  them  not, 
They  sing,  and  toil,  and  die,  —  and  are  forgot  ! 

Boy,  thou  shalt  be  a  painter.  —  I  give  him  Hope, 

That  fickle  fairy,  who  will  not  elope, 

So  long  as  in  his  warm  blood  crimsons  youth, 

So  long  perhaps  as  he  is  true  to  Truth. 

Yet,  —  as  I  gaze  upon  these  pictures,  drawn 

Many  in  colors  brighter  than  the  dawn ; 

Some  touched  with  humor,  such  as  bees  might  sip 

In  summer-time  from  Ariosto's  lip, 

I  think  of  all  the  baffled  hopes  and  pains 

That  men  endure  to  reach  some  sordid  gains  ! 

Some  gains  ?  —  am  I  not  ignorantly  wrong  ? 

My  thought  must  err.     The  seed  of  Poet's  song, 

Of  Artists'  inspiration,  when  they  reach 

That  rare  expression,  which  is  kin  to  speech, 

Must  spring  from  a  deeper  source,  —  some  inward  bliss, 

Some  airy  ambitious  hope, 

19 


290  SEEING. 

But,  how  is  this  ? 

The  crowd  descends.    What,  is  the  day  so  low  ? 
Then  we'll  depart.     In  truth,  'tis  better  so. 
Than  wear  his  spirit  down  with  too  much  pleasure. 
To-morrow  we  will  come  again,  and  measure 
Florence  with  Rome,  —  with  Venice.  That  being  done, 
He  shall  go  home  and  dream  how  Fame  may  still  be 
won. 


HEARING.  291 


HEARING. 

CHARMING  is  it  in  a  poem 

That  Refrain ! 

Never  comes  the  sweet  recurrence 
Murmuring  on  the  ear  in  vain  : 
Sweetest  is  the  song  in  leisure, 
Linking  pleasure  unto  pleasure, 

Hiding  all  the  pain. 

Curious  is  the  sense  of  hearing ! 

How  it  bears 

You  back  into  the  dreams  of  distance, 
Vanished  joys,  forgotten  cares, 
Through  the  starry  ether,  bringing 
Down  the  orbed  angels'  singing 

From  the  upper  airs. 

What,  unheard,  were  Love's  own  music  ? 

Senseless,  cold. 

What  would  be  the  sweet  confession  ? 
It  might — ah,  —  remain  untold! 
What  the  cannon's  thunderous  stories  ? 
What  our  Australasian  glories, 

With  their  tales  of  gold  ? 


292  HEARING. 

Hearing !    Sight !    All-mystic  powers  ! 

What  has  e'er 
Man,  in  his  divinest  hours, 
Wrought  that  shall  with  these  compare  ? 
Gifts  are  they,  from  Him  who  giveth 
Life  to  everything  that  liveth, 
Patient  Strength  that  ne'er  repineth, 
Hope  that  soareth,  Love  that  shineth 

Upon  every  care. 


PHRYSTE.  293 


PHRYNE. 

SHALL  you  love  him  ?    Oh,  yes,  love  him, 
While  you  live  —  until  you  die  ; 

Wherefore  ask  the  idle  question  ? 
Why  your  change  deny  ? 

When  for  me  you  left  a  lover, 

How  I  loved  you,  kissed  your  brow, — 
Lips ;  believed  you  ;  too  much  trusted  : 

Well,  —  he'll  trust  you  now. 

In  the  region  of  his  fancy 

He  will  seat  you  on  a  throne, 

And  fall  down,  a  slave,  before  you, 
Worshipping  you  alone. 

All  the  good  the  Gods  have  given  him, 
All  his  wealth  beneath  the  sun, 

He  will  give  you,  —  soul  and  body, 
Give  —  as  I  have  done  ! 

Will  you  then  desert  him  ?  hate  him  ? 

Scorn  him,  as  you  me  disdain  ? 
Yes  :  —  he'll  leave  the  world  behind  him, 

Burthened  with  his  pain  : 


294  PHRYNE. 

And  you  then  will  sail  triumphant, 
To  "  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new," 

Leaving  in  your  wake  a  murmur 
Of  what  Hell  can  do, 

When  the  Serpent  stings  the  woman. 

—  Oh,  sweet  Saints  who  watch  above ! 
Why  should  harlot  folly  reign, 
Stinging  tender  hearts  to  pain, 
Fettering  with  her  slavish  chain 

The  poor  peasant,  Love  ? 


MATJVAISE    HONTE.  295 


MAUVAISE    HONTE. 

I  WATCH  the  house  wherein  she  dwelleth, 

Love-conquered  quite : 
I  watch  and  wait,  till  some  one  telleth 
That  she  is  about  to  break  the  night 

With  her  light ; 

And  then  —  for  I  know  the  road  she  travelleth 

I  steal  away, 

And  meet  her.     Face  to  face  unravelleth 
All  that  I  long  have  burned  to  say, 
Night  and  day. 

She  moves ;  the  conscious  beauty  crowning 

Her  queenly  eyes  ; 
I,  with  my  face  of  fire,  disowning 
The  coward  heart  that  within  me  dies. 

And  so  Time  flies ; 

And  Life,  which  is  so  short,  will  tremble 

And  fade  in  death, 
Before  the  love,  which  I  dissemble, 
Will  dare  to  tell,  in  faltering  breath, 

All  my  heart  saith. 


296  MAUVAISE    HONTE. 

Still  haunt  I  every  path  she  treadeth, 

The  field,  the  lane  ; 

And  read  —  oh,  every  book  she  readeth 
And  some  who  see  my  tortured  brain, 

Will  soothe  the  pain, — 

Will  tell  me  how  she  ought  to  love  me, 

And  that  her  heart 
(Altho'  her  eyes  look  cold  above  me) 
Feels,  thro'  her  pride,  the  arrow  dart, 

But  hides  the  smart. 

And  then,  I  hope ! — At  times  a  glory, ' 

From  some  far  clime, 
Shoots  thro'  the  darkness  of  my  story, 
And  then  I  give  my  soul  to  rhyme, 

As  now; — and  trust  to  time. 


LOYE.  —  (MODERATO).  297 


LOVE.  —  (MODERATO). 

SHE  gave  him  her  all,  her  heart  and  her  fortune. 
What  did  he  do  with  the  beautiful  pack  ? 
Gazed  at 't  a  little,  and  gave  it  her  back ; 
Negligent  quite  of  a  chance  so  opportune. 

Blushing  for  shame,  did  she  call  in  her  brother, 
Or  her  fierce  fighting  cousin,  to  punish  the  wrong  ? 
Ah,  no,  sir,  she  wisely  broke  into  a  song, 
Felt  her  heart  was  all  sound,  and  so  gave  it  another. 

"  Well ;  she  was  wise  not  to  pine  for  his  scorning. 
She  lives  ?  " —  With  her  husband,  just  over  the  way  ; 
She  sings  him  to  sleep  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
And  laughs  with  her  children,  sir,  all  thro'  the  morning. 

Yet  has  she  a  heart.     She  has  squandered  her  beauty, 
Long  since.    It  fell  off,  like  the  bloom  of  the  rose  ; 
And  now  on  life's  road  she  contentedly  goes, 
And  gives  herself  up,  quite,  to  conjugal  duty. 

All  love  is  not  burning.     'Tis  paler  and  colder 
When  hunger,  or  frost,  or  life's  troubles  give  pain ; 
It  subsides  into  calm  when  our  life's  on  the  wane, 
And  hides  its  small  pangs  from  the  laughing  beholder. 


298  LOVE. (TEMPESTOSO). 


LOVE.  —  (TEMPESTOSO). 

PRESS  your  palms  upon  my  eyes  : 
Press  your  breast  against  my  breast. 
Nothing,  save  enormous  pleasures,  — 
Nothing  but  the  vastest,  —  best, 
Now  can  give  me  rest. 

From  the  extremities  of  earth 
I  come  :  —  What  read  I  on  your  brow  ? 
Tell  me  not  of  forms  or  fancies  : 
Love  me  ;  as  but  you  know  how. 
Your  lips  upon  my  lips,  —  now  ! 

What !  am  I  not  he  you  loved  ? 
Gave  your  heart  to  ?  why  deny  ? 
Am  I  changed?  are  you  a  traitress? 
I'll  not  part  with  a  kiss  or  sigh : 
Who  can  love  as  I  ? 

In  your  words  there  lives  a  music 
That  can  soothe  the  soul  of  care  ; 
In  your  eyes  I  see  a  beauty, 
(Beauty  airier  than  the  air,) 
None  but  you  can  wear. 


LOVE. (TEMPESTOSO).  299 

All  the  tempests  of  the  tropics, 

Oceans,  deserts,  have  I  passed  : 

What  do  you  think  gave  strength  to  conquer 

Deadly  ice  and  burning  blast, 

But  to  be  loved  by  you,  —  chained  fast 

Ever  while  the  world  shall  last  ? 


300  TO    A    FOREIGX    ACTRESS. 


TO    A    FOREIGN    ACTRESS. 

WHAT  shall  I  do  to  please  you  ? 
To  flatter,  to  woo,  to  win  ? 
Shall  I  buy  your  body  with  money  ? 
Shall  I  tempt  your  soul  with  sin  ? 

Shall  I  build  up  heroic  poems, 
And  force  your  name  on  high  ? 
Shall  I  rush  in  the  Hell  of  battle, 
With  your  name  as  a  conquering  cry  ? 

Shall  I  shoot  the  untrodden  desert  ? 
Shall  I  twine  with  my  own  your  name, 
In  some  glory  yet  unascended  ? 
In  some  terrible  endless  fame  ? 

I  see  that  your  eyes  are  a  serpent's  : 
I  know  that  your  heart  is  stone  ; 
That  your  love  is  as  false  as  deadly ; 
And  yet  —  I  am  yours  alone  ! 

Witch  —  Serpent  —  pitiless  —  worthless  — 
Look  down,  where  I  writhe  and  sigh ! 
Speak !    What  must  I  do  —  or  suffer  ?  — 
You  hiss  out  an  answer  —  "  DIE  !  " 


PAHTHIAN    LOVE.  301 


PARTHIAN    LOVE. 

THY  figure  I  see  in  the  bending  grass ; 

Thy  voice  I  hear  in  the  song-sweet  river  : 

I  scent  the  rich  flower,  and  sigh  at  thy  power ; 

Wherever  I  be,  thine  image  I  see, 

And  flee  — 

Flee  thee  for  ever,  ever,  ever. 

Thou  hast  too  much  grace,  in  thy  perfect  face ; 
Thou  hast  too  many  darts  in  thine  armed  quiver 
The  pleasure  I  gain  is  overpowered  by  pain, 
So  I  leave  thee,  and  grieve  thee 
For  ever,  —  ever. 

What  is  it  that  lies  in  thine  orient  eyes  ? 
What's  hid  in  thy  bosom,  thou  dangerous  giver  ? 
Thou  givest  in  vain  or  joy  or  pain  , 
1  shun  thy  perfume,  for  it  is  my  doom 
To  see  thee,  and  flee  thee 
For  ever,  —  ever  ! 


302  PAH    NIENTE. 


FAR    NIENTE. 

PLEASANT  it  is,  that  doing  nothing, 

Never  moving — thinking  —  scheming ; 

Idle  only,  —  dozing,  —  dreaming 

On  a  sward  of  quiet  green, 

By  the  rippling  river  seen  ; 

Where  the  alders  in  a  row, 

When  the  morning  breezes  blow, 

Whisper  to  the  plumy  boughs 

Of  an  elm,  that  overhead 

Doth  a  cooling  shadow  shed  : 

In  the  leaves,  perhaps  a  dove 

Breathes  her  little  note  of  love  ; 

Else  all  silent.  —  On  the  wall 

Let  the  summer  sunshine  fall, 

On  the  meadow,  on  the  mill, 

Idle  now,  amidst  the  sedge 

Thickening  at  the  water's  edge, 

And  upon  the  far,  soft,  azure-curtained  hill. 

Far  be  every  human  ill ! 

Far  be  tears,  far  be  sighing ! 

Nothing  gloomy  ;  let  the  Day 

Run  upon  his  cheerful  way  ; 

While  over  me  and  over  all 

Silver  clouds  are  flying. 


FAB,    NIENTE.  303 

Much,  indeed,  I  love  to  walk 

With  a  friend,  in  easy  talk, 

On  the  downs,  in  June  or  May  ; 

On  the  downs  that  stretch  away, 

Far  away,  —  far  away,  — 

From  the  white-browed  cliffs  that  keep 

Watch  above  the  toiling  Deep, 

Listening  there  night  and  day 

What  the  troubled  Waters  say ; 

For  they  often  writhe  and  moan, 

From  the  mid  Atlantic  blown, 

And  will  tell  you  ghastly  tales, 

Of  what  befalleth  in  the  gales, 

Till  you  steal  unto  your  rest 

With  a  pain  upon  your  breast. 


Yet,  how  pleasant  nothing  doing ! 
What  is  all  the  worth  of  wooing  ? 
Loving  ?  —  when  you  may  inspire 
Warmth  beside  the  winter  fire, 
Caring  nought  what  may  betide  you, 
With  a  book  you  love  beside  you, 
(Landor's  verse  or  Browning's  rhyme, 
Or  some  volume  of  old  time 
Loved  when  Fiction,  nurse  of  youth, 
Fed  you  with  the  milk  of  Truth,)  — 
All  the  while  the  rough  storm  rages, 
As  you  doze  above  the  pages, 


304  FAR    NIENTE. 

Half-ashamed  the  charmer  Sleep 
Should  take  you  to  her  deepest  deep, 
With  such  wealth  before  you. 
Yet,  till  gentle  Sleep  restore  you 
To  your  merry  morning  fancies, 
Pleasant  is  the  dream  that  dances 
Up  and  down  before  your  eyes, 
As  the  misty  daylight  dies ; 
Pleasant  are  the  scraps  and  lines, 
That  no  conscious  sense  divines, 
Murmurs,  —  sounds,  —  that  come  and  go 
Just  as  lapsing  waters  flow  ; 
Now  a  whisper,  like  the  South 
Breathing  from  a  loving  mouth, 
Then  the  silence,  —  softest,  —  best, 
Till  you  —  fade  away  to  rest ! 

Pleasant  all !    And  yet  there  streams 
Beyond  it,  like  a  light  in  dreams, 
Something  even  the  Idler  seeth, 
When  his  idle  humor  fleeth  ; 
Something  that  the  dull  brain  fireth, 
And  the  ambitious  Soul  desireth  ; 
Regions  where  the  poet's  vision 
Openeth  into  fields  Elysian  ; 
Gardens,  with  their  clustering  gold  ; 
Castles,  rich  with  pictures  old, 
Done  by  famous  painters  dead, 
Ere  the  Heroic  Spirit  fled, 


FAR    NIEJSTTE.  305 

Leaving  Earth  to  later  glories, 
Fitted,  each  in  turn,  for  stories 
That  would  crown  the  Artist's  fame, 
Were  he  worthy  of  his  name. 

Idler !  —  Let  his  idling  cease, 
If  he  hope  to  dwell  in  peace, 
Such  a  peace  as  Labor  gives 
Unto  every  one  that  lives ; 
Let  him  seek,  —  nor  idly,  seek, 
But  wear  his  toil  upon  his  cheek : 
What  he  seeketh  he  shall  find, 
Food  for  every  mood  of  mind  ; 
Learning  culled  from  antique  bowers ; 
Science,  sweet  in  midnight  hours ; 
Music,  silvering  down  in  showers ; 
All  the  poets  wise  have  brought 
From  the  inner  realms  of  Thought; 
All  that  the  master,  Love,  can  teach,  amidst  a 
world  of  flowers. 


20 


306  TO    JOHN    FOKSTER. 

TO    JOHN    FORSTER. 

WITH  SHAKESPERE'S  WORKS. 

I  DO  not  know  a  man  who  better  reads 

Or  weighs  the  great  thoughts  of  the  book  I  send, — 

Better  than  he  whom  I  have  called  my  friend 

For  twenty  years  and  upwards.     He  who  feeds 

Upon  Shakesperian  pastures  never  needs 

The  humbler  food  which  springs  from  plains  below : 

Yet  may  he  love  the  little  flowers  that  blow, 

And  him  excuse  who  for  their  beauty  pleads. 

Take  then  my  Shakespere  to  some  sylvan  nook ; 
And  pray  thee,  in  the  name  of  Days  of  old, 
Good-will  and  friendship,  never  bought  or  sold, 
Give  me  assurance  thou  wilt  always  look 
With  kindness  still  on  Spirits  of  humbler  mould ; 
Kept  firm  by  resting  on  that  wondrous  book, 
Wherein  the  Dream  of  Life  is  all  unrolled. 


EPISTLE    FROM    AN    OBSCURE    PHILOSOPHER.      307 


EPISTLE 

FROM  AN   OBSCURE  PHILOSOPHER. 

PRONE  on  my  bed,  I  send  these  lines  to  thee, 

0  Hieros !    Strange  dreams  of  days  gone  by 

Haunt  'round  my  brain  :  Delights,  and  Pains,  and  Scenes 
Peopled  with  pleasant  shapes  (now  lost !)  like  ghosts 
Across  some  crystal  mirror,  come  and  go ; 

1  helpless  !    These  give  leisure  to  my  days, 

And  nights,  (which  are  not  all  involved  and  dark) ; 
And  so  I  purpose  to  redeem  my  pledge, 
And  tell  thee  briefly,  my  poor  history. 

Friend, —  for  thou  art  my  friend,  altho'  we  two 
Have  trod  our  different  roads,  from  life  to  death ; 
Thou  thro'  the  holy  pastures,  where  the  sheep, 
Guided  by  croziered  shepherds,  feed  at  ease, 
And  drink  the  heavenly  waters,  and  sleep  safe ; 
I  through  the  tangled  wastes  and  briery  depths, 
Struggling,  heart-sore,  have  found  my  way  —  by  night ! 

Well,  —  Thou  hast  often  called  me,  I  confess, 
And  told  me  of  thy  pleasant  paths  on  high, 
Beckoning  me  upwards.     I  would  go  my  way ; 
For  I  believed  my  road  led  upwards  too, 


308      EPISTLE    FROM    AN    OBSCURE    PHILOSOPHER. 

And  had  its  verdant  nooks,  and  daisied  spots 

Pearling  the  meadows,  somewhere,  —  afar  off! 

So  I  wore  onwards.     1  was  near  the  'goal, 

Felt  the  fresh  air,  and  saw  the  sunny  steeps, 

When  suddenly  came  —  Death !  Then,  Hope  being  fled, 

I  sank  and  strove  no  more. 

Yet  have  I  had 

Delight  in  labor,  as  thou  hadst  in  ease. 
'Twas  pleasant  to  endure,  and  know  that  I 
Must  conquer  in  the  end.     'Twas  pleasant,  too, 
To  free  my  thoughts  from  parsimonious  tasks, 
And  bid  them  seek  the  liberal  air,  and  fry 
(The  larks  !)  up  to  the  sun.     They  brought  me  down 
Wealth  that  you  care  not  for,  perhaps  despise ; 
Siderean  music  from  the  Pleiades  ; 
Vast  truths  which  soaring  Science  never  reached  ; 
Dim  intimations  from  majestic  Souls 
Who  died  long  since,  and  fled,  we  know  not  where, 
And  messages  from  all  the  Orbs  of  Heaven. 

Had  I  but  studied  all  my  father  taught, 

I  should  have  mastered  every  science  ;  plunged 

Deep  in  geometry  and  numbers  ;  piled 

Million  on  million  ;  bale  on  bale  ;  until 

My  iron  rooms  and  bags  had  burst  with  gold. 

He  had  a  lust  for  gold,  such  as  we  see 

For  travel,  where  men  leave  their  friends  and  homes, 

And  seek  for  unknown  seas  and  desert  sands. 


EPISTLE    FROM    AX    OBSCURE    PHILOSOPHER.      309 

But  from  my  mother's  lessons  roses  sprang ; 
Poured  out  their  fragrance  :  lilies  opened  wide 
Their  breasts  all  dropt  with  gold :  the  winds,  unsought, 
Gave  out  fine  meanings  in  each  murmuring  sound; 
And  those  star-eyes,  that  fill  the  face  of  Night, 
Shed  on  me  all  their  mystic  influence. 

Thus  dowered,  I  left  the  world  to  dig  for  gold, 

Waste  its  worn  youth,  and  write,  with  wrinkled  brow, 

Its  sordid  history  ;  whilst  I,  emerging 

Into  the  unpeopled  air,  where  freedom  was, 

From  my  pure  height  saw  all  that  Nature  hoards 

In  silence  for  her  faithful  worshippers. 

And  what  I  sought  I  sought  with  all  my  soul ; 

For  to  do  less  is  to  ensure  a  loss  ; 

As  he  who  lazily  seeks  by  some  rope's  length, 

The  dizzy  height,  and  half-way  loses  his  hold, 

Falls  down  destroyed,  because  his  heart  is  weak. 

I  suffered?  — I  rejoiced  !  as  few  have  done, 

In  all  the  great  extremes  of  happiness  ; 

Nay,  all  those  notes  and  shades  of  difference 

That  lie  between  the  two  points  of  excess, 

Have  each  an  individual  self  distinct 

Pregnant  with  pleasure.     Do  you  think  I  stood 

Half-struck  to  marble,  by  those  faultless  forms 

Dug  out  of  Roman  earth,  without  a  pang 

Of  wonderful  delight  ?     I  entered,  wrapt, 

Into  the  circle  of  Art ;  beheld  (dismayed 

By  power)  each  one  of  Titian's  master-works ; 


310       EPISTLE    FROH    AN    OBSCURE    PHILOSOPHER. 

And  rare  Giorgione's  sunset  pastoral  scenes, 
Gleaming  with  gold  ;  the  peerless  perfect  grace 
That  streams  suffused  thro'  heavenly  Raffaelle's  forms,  — 
Child,  virgin,  matron,  man,  all  near  divine, 
Half-earth,  half-heaven  ;  and  last  those  massive  shapes 
Which  sprang  from  Michael's  brain,  and  took  their  stand 
Predominant,  triumphant  through  all  time  ; 
Whereat  still  youthful  painters  gaze  with  pride, 
To  think  that  Art  hath  done  so  much  for  men. 

Leaving  awhile  these  rainbow-colored  paths, 
I  wandered  through  the  flowery  vales  of  sound, 
Where  Mozart  wove,  by  night,  his  musk-rose  airs ; 
And  thro'  harmonious  turns  and  labyrinths, 
Where  Handel  once  (with  Galatea)  strayed, 
And  Purcell,  when  he  linked  his  soul  to  song. 
From  every  grace  I  caught  new  light,  new  strength : 
From  radiant  Art  I  rose  to  Poesy, 
Which  spread  its  wings  across  the  warring  heavens, 
When  he  who  sang  the  strife  was  old  and  blind  ; 
With  Poesy,  who  upheld  the  Florentine, 
When  on  his  downward  path  he  moved  amazed  ; 
And  who  —  when  Nature  bared  her  breast,  and  fed 
Her  wondrous  Avon  child,  and  in  his  ear 
Poured  all  her  secrets  —  bore  him  upwards,  till 
He  touched  the  eternal  stars  and  seemed  to  die  ! 

At  last,  to  Nature's  self  I  turned,  and  read 
Infinite  marvels  in  her  daily  page. 


EPISTLE    FROM    AN    OBSCURE    PHILOSOPHER.       311 

I  and  all  things  on  whom  sweet  life  descends 

Had  intercourse.     The  insect  that  doth  hold 

His  court  upon  a  leaf,  and  dying  yields 

His  generations  to  the  sheltering  grass, 

Was  my  companion.     In  those  April  days, 

Ere  the  rose  opens,  and  when  meadows  burn 

With  flowers  all  colored  like  the  morning  beams, 

And  every  point,  thro'  winter  months  left  bare, 

Pours  out  its  buds,  I  made  me  friends,  and  grew 

Familiar  with  the  worm,  and  with  the  bird 

That  breeds  its  young  within  the  guardian  thorn. 

—  1  tell  these  things,  that  thou  mayst  know  there  live, 

Beyond  the  pulpit's  velvet,  and  beyond 

Thy  lordly  abbey,  filled  with  meats  and  wines, 

Things  that  belong  to  God  ;  who  sends  their  hearts 

Upwards  in  fine  melodious  gratitude, 

Leaving  sweet  lessons  for  poor  men  like  me, 

And  some  that  even  thou  might'st  deign  to  teach. 

Something  thou  know'st,  past  knowledge,  past  all  forms, 

Dwells  in  the  living  breast.     For  with  the  gift 

Of  life  is  given  the  priceless  dream  of  love, 

And  gratitude  which  pays  to  God  who  gives 

Thanks  beyond  prayer.     We,  poor  petitioners, 

Too  often  content  to  ask,  forget  to  pay 

The  debt  we  owe  for  good.     Pardon  us,  Thou  ! 

Infinite,  Grand,  Supreme  Intelligence  ! 

Teach  us  the  lessons  man  was  born  to  learn  ; 

Lead  us  to  loftier  thoughts,  to  sunnier  creeds ; 

For  in  the  misty  years  of  happiness, 


312       EPISTLE    FROM    AN    OBSCURE    PHILOSOPHER. 

Our  hearts  exhale  with  tenderest  thoughts,  which  soar 
Like  dew  from  off  the  ground,  and  hallow  us. 

In  the  low  hedge,  hard  by  the  open  wilds, 

The  linnet  builds  her  home  ;  and  in  the  roofs 

Of  populous  towns  the  poor  house-sparrow  breeds  : 

Far  from  each  other  born,  yet  both  alike 

Become,  by  gentle  usage,  friends  to  those 

Who  seek  and  give  them  food  and  cherish  them. 

See  where,  aloft,  upon  the  towering  pine, 

Broods  the  sea-eagle,  and  from  year  to  year 

Comes  back  unto  her  home  of  sedge  and  reeds, 

And  branches,  interlaced  with  artist  skill ; 

And  hunts  the  seas  by  night,  defends  her  young, 

And,  in  all  perils  and  all  needs  of  life, 

Shows  strength  beyond  the  strength  of  peasant  minds. 

In  watchfulness,  fidelity  (beyond 

Bribe  or  alarm),  the  household  dog  stands  firm 

In  danger,  when  the  faithful  servant  flies. 

Wonderful  knowledge,  never  learned  from  books  ! 

Wonderful  knowledge,  from  which  man  may  learn 

That  he  transcends  not  yet  the  bird  or  brute 

In  all  things,  —  goodness,  wisdom,  gratitude. 

Divinest  Instinct,  like  the  sun  in  air, 

Thou  reign'st  unknown  !  —  Unknown  ?    Yet,  as  we  talk, 

The  indefatigable  Future  comes, 

Minute  by  minute,  years  by  countless  years ; 

These  as  they  come,  these  legions,  range  about 

The  silent  form  of  the  Eternal  Past, 

Each  with  its  scroll,  from  which  all  men  may  read. 


EPISTLE    FROM    AN    OBSCURE    PHILOSOPHER.       313 

My  soul  was  calm ;  proud,  haply,  as  I  marked 

Some  finer  lines,  and  truths  half-hid  that  'scape 

The  idler  on  the  greensward  ;  and  when  Time 

Led  me  to  grander  truths,  and  I  beheld 

What  seemed  the  confluence  of  the  stars,  take  shapes, 

Grow  into  worlds,  saw  world  encircling  world, 

Borne  through  their  orbits  by  diviner  powers, 

And  laws,  that  far  outrun  the  thoughts  of  men, 

Leaving  the  ground,  my  thoughts  advanced,  and  took 

Their  stations  near  the  sky,  where  angels  dwell : 

Thence  —  from  this  azure  summit,  built  of  air, 

Descended  suddenly  an  airier  shape, 

Swift  as  a  sunbeam,  tinged  by  hues  of  love. 

Eyes  that  outshone  the  stars,  and  seemed  to  pierce 

Beyond  the  secrets  of  remotest  Time, 

Looked  down  upon  me,  —  me  !    Their  luminous  depths,  — 

Their  grand  sweet  Silence,  that  surpassed  all  sound, 

Held  me  like  iron.     I  looked  up,  and  wept, — 

Wept,  till  soft  words,  bubbling  through  roses,  rose 

From  inner  fountains  where  the  Soul  abides, 

And  showered  celestial  balm.     She  stood  disclosed, 

A  perfect  soul  within  a  perfect  form ; 

Unparalleled,  intelligent,  divine. 

Dreams  of  some  inner  Heaven  then  took  my  soul 

Captive,  and  flushed  the  thrilling  nerves  with  joy, 

Commingling  with  my  sleep  and  blessing  it ; 

And,  when  she  warmed  with  love,  my  eyes  amazed 

Met  thrice  the  wonders  I  before  had  seen : 

I  drank  in  fragrance  thousand  times  more  sweet 


314       EPISTLE    FROM    AN     OBSCURE    PHILOSOPHER. 

Than  ever  lay  upon  the  hyacinth's  lip  : 
Music  I  heard,  sphere-tuned,  harmonious, 
Ravishing  earth  and  sky  :     Swarms  of  delight 
Encompassed  me,  until  my  soul  o'erwhelmed 
Sank  in  the  conflict ;  and  I  then  poured  forth 
My  heart  in  numbers  such  as  lovers  use  :  — 

O  perfect  Love,  soft  Joy,  untinged  with  pain ! 

0  Sky,  kept  cloudless  by  the  sighs  of  Spring ! 

O  Bird,  that  bear'st  sweet  sounds  thro'  sun  and  rain, 
Give  thy  heart  way,  and  sing  ! 

Look  down,  dear  Love,  as  Heaven  looks  down  on  earth  ! 

Be  near  me,  round  me,  like  the  enfolding  air ! 
Impart  some  beauty  from  thy  beauteous  worth  ; 

Or  be  thyself  less  fair. 

As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water-brooks  ; 

As  the  dove  mourneth  in  the  lone  pine-tree ; 
So,  left  unsunned  by  thy  care-charming  looks, 

1  pant,  I  mourn  for  thee ! 

—  She  came  unto  my  home  ;  and  with  her  came 

Infinite  love  ;  content ;  divine  repose. 

Life  rose  above  its  height ;  and  we  beheld 

Beauty  in  all  things,  everywhere  delight ! 

The  Sun  that  dwelt  in  our  own  hearts  shed  forth 

Its  beams  upon  the  world,  and  brightened  it ; 

And  from  that  brightness,  as  the  ground  takes  back 


EPISTLE    FROM   AN    OBSCURE    PHILOSOPHER.       315 

The  dews  it  gently  lends,  we  gathered  light 

That  led  us  thro'  the  dim  sweet  paths  of  life, 

Until  our  hearts  bloomed  forth  in  happiness. 

—  A  home  we  had,  not  distant,  yet  removed 

Somewhat  aside  from  the  laborious  town, 

Where  friends  (a  few)  would  come  when  Spring  had 

touched 

The  sward  with  daisies.     In  our  garden  rose 
Imperial  cedars,  underneath  whose  shade 
We  shunned  the  summer  heat,  and  heard  content 
The  little  brook  which  ran  and  talked  below. 
Here  'twas  at  eve,  we  lingered,  and  saw  rise 
Those  golden-crowned  daughters  of  the  Night, 
Who,  when  the  sun  is  slumbering,  take  their  place 
And  watch  the  world  till  morn,  with  sleepless  eyes. 
Behind  us,  in  the  distance,  hills  aspired 
To  mountains,  on  whose  brows  the  early  snow 
Came  and  dwelt  long ;  too  far  for  cold  ;  so  near 
We  counted  all  the  purple  streaks  that  hung 
O'er  every  misty  valley.     Oh  how  bright, 
How  filled  with  joy  was  all  we  looked  upon  ! 
Why  should  it  end  ?   .  .  . 

...  It  ended.     I  am  here, 
Stripped  of  my  wealth  ;  alone.     I  am  not  shut 
Out  from  the  world  like  one  that  has  no  place, 
But  wander  uncompanioned  on  my  way. 
Smit  by  a  terrible  doom,  I  yet  look  back 
On  things  that  charmed  me  once  ;  that  soothe  me  now. 
The  Day  has  faded.     Evening  still  remains, 


316       EPISTLE    FHOM    AN    OBSCUEE    PHILOSOPHER. 

Wherein  some  deeds  of  good  may  yet  be  done. 
I  am  not  what  I  was  :  —  that  cannot  be. 
I  could  have  lived  without  so  fair  a  thins 

O 

To  breathe  beside  me.     But  slie  came,  and  brought 

That  air  which  now  is  life.  „  Without  that  air 

I  cannot  live  !     I  am  a  denizen 

And  dweller  on  an  orb  unknown  before ; 

But  now  my  natural  soil ;  my  only  earth. 

Ah !  whilst  I  stood  and  gazed,  out  of  the  grass, 

Out  of  the  very  flowers  the  serpent  rose, 

And  in  his  labyrinthine  sinewy  coil 

Strangled  my  earthly  bliss  ! 

But  I  forget. 

A  cloud  came  o'er  me  :  it  has  passed  away. 
There  is  a  Morning  somewhere.     Somewhere  still 
The  Sun  ascends  his  pathway  as  of  old, 
And  light,  and  warmth,  and  beauty  breathe  again. 
There  will  I  go,  should  pain  once  leave  me  free : 
If  not,  and  1  must  close  my  journey  here, 
Content  at  last  I  rest.     No  cruel  creed 
Has  bade  me  fire  the  martyr's  blazing  pile  : 
I  have  not  trampled  on  the  poor ;  nor  made 
My  friend  a  footstool  for  myself  to  rise : 
No  outrage  of  another's  tender  thoughts, 
No  bland  deceit  that  leads  weak  souls  astray, 
Was  mine.     My  hours  passed  onwards  without  harm. 
A  few  have  bent  the  knee  and  deemed  me  kind : 
I  followed  but  my  nature  ;  nothing  more. 
Perhaps  'twas  this  which  forced  my  bosom  heave 


EPISTLE    FROM    AN    OBSCURE    PHILOSOPHER.        317 

With  gratitude  to  God  for  all  he  gave  ; 

That  thrust  my  hand  out  tow'rds  my  fellow  men, 

And  proffer  comfort. 

What  is  done  is  done  ! 

And  what  is  left  ?     The  Past,  — the  grave  wise  Past ! 
Of  that  I  write  —  these  few  last  words  —  to  thee. 


318 


LE 


LE    SCELE11AT. 

STILL  are  you  here,  a  poisonous  life 

Outbreaking  ? 
Still  are  you  bands  of  deadly  strife 

Enwreathing  ? 

Your  friends,  are  they  now  foes  ?  grown  old 

And  stronger  ? 
Your  gold,  is  that  all  spent  ?      Your  gold 

No  longer  ? 

Your  thoughts  that  were  so  low,  so  blanched 

By  care, 
Are  they  now  buoyant,  rose-like,  launched 

In  air  ? 

No  !     On  your  shoulder  still  that  freak 

Of  birth, 
(The  hump,)  still  reigns,  and  bids  you  seek 

The  earth. 

No  !     You  help  none,  please  none  ;  nor  love, 

Nor  give : 
How  is  it,  O  slave,  you  dare  to  move  ? 

To  live  ? 


LE    SC^LEEAT.  319 

Vile  Shame  !  usurping  still  in  space 

A  part, 
Which  else  might  own  some  earthly  grace  ; 

—  Depart! 

Thou,  who  ne'er  earn'dst  beneath  Heaven's  dome 

A  friend, 
Into  the  black  abyss,  thy  home, 

Descend ! 


320  THE    VICTOli. 


THE    VICTOR. 

HE  is  dead,  —  whom  I  trusted  and  loved 

In  my  innocent  youth  ; 
Gave  my  heart  to,  —  in  times  when  I  knew  not 

A  lie  from  a  truth. 

I  gave  him  my  all ;  the  things  hid 

In  the  cells  of  my  heart ; 
My  wealth  :  would  you  know  what  he  did 

For  my  good,  on  his  part  ? 

He  robbed  me  —  he  might  have  had  all : 

He  smote  me,  —  in  vain  : 
I  arose  from  the  shock  of  my  fall, 

From  the  depths  of  my  pain ; 

And  I  cried — "You  have  wronged  me :  —  My  life, 

Love,  and  friendship  I  gave. 
When  you  trembled  and  shrieked  in  the  strife, 

I  was  near  you,  to  save. 

But  you  stole  from  my  arms  the  one  prize 

(Of  my  soul)  that  I  won  ; 
You  ravished  the  light  from  my  eyes, 

The  warmth  from  my  sun : 


THE    VICTOR.  321 

So  I  slew  you.     In  open  mid-day, 

We  met  on  the  shore, 
Where  we  met  when  our  spirits  were  gay, 

And  all  life  was  before. 

I  slew  you  —  in  open  fair  fight : 

I  clove  thro'  the  brain 
That  so  long  had  bewildered  my  sight ; 

That  had  stung  me  to  pain. 

I  saw  you,  still  firm  in  my  wrath, 

Fall  dead  on  the  sand  ; 
And  the  last  bloody  (white  and  red)  froth 

Bubbled  warm  on  my  hand. 

And  now  ?  do  you  sleep  ?     Are  you  yet 

In  the  pangs  of  your  guilt  ? 
For  me,  I  have  found  no  regret 

For  the  blood  I  have  spilt. 

I  enjoy,  on  the  sands  where  we  fought, 

The  fresh  songs  of  the  sea ; 
And  I  laugh,  that  my  heart  feeleth  nought 

Of  poor  pity  for  thee." 


21 


322  THE    KING    IS    DEAD. 


THE    KING    IS    DEAD. 


SOUND  the  great  bell ! 

The  King  of  all  the  land  is  cold  and  dead  : 

He  whom  ye  knew  so  well  — 

Know  he  hath  nought  whereon  to  rest  his  head, 

Now,  but  the  barest  stone, 

Whereon  he  lies  alone, 

Far  from  all  help  ;  life,  love,  and  friendship  —  fled  ! 

n. 

Sound  the  great  bell ! 

He  whom  ye  knew  in  all  his  radiant  power, 
The  wonder  and  pageant  of  an  hour, 
Has  bade  the  world  farewell ; 
Let  slip  his  sceptre,  doffed  his  crimson  state ; 
And  they,  who  at  his  pleasure  used  to  wait, 
Carp  at  his  deeds,  and  tell 
The  wrongs  he  did  to  all,  —  his  queenly  mate, 
Friends,  foes,  to  Truth,  to  rank,  and  every  ghost  of  state. 

in. 

Some  future  day,  not  far, 
They'll  build  a  column  on  the  mountain  near ; 


THE    KING    IS    DEAD. 

And  in  some  pander  rhyme, 

Shape  out  historian  lies  for  after-time. 

Meanwhile,  enlightened  by  a  steadfast  star, 

I  will  set  down, 

In  words  that  may  be  read  by  rich  and  poor, 

By  all  who  did  his  iron  rule  endure, 

The  truth  (for  once)  of  one  who  wore  a  crown. 


323 


324  TO    A    MYTH. 


TO    A    MYTH. 

JUDGE  of  words  without  a  meaning ; 
Arbiter  'tween  black  and  white  ; 
Fusing  all  the  shades  of  difference 
Into  day  or  into  night. 

Cunning,  cheating,  grim  magician  ; 
Plunderer  both  of  age  and  youth ; 
Slave  of  forms  and  senseless  customs ; 
Laugher  at  the  light  of  truth. 

Has  my  life,  then,  all  been  wasted, 
Threading  thy  bewildering  ways  ? 
Have  I  lost  the  hopeful  morning  ? 
Spoiled  the  evening  of  my  days  ? 


Down,  thou  Shape *of  hair  and  ermine  ! 
Quit  thy  high  disgraced  place. 
Down,  and  meet  thy  nobler  brother, 
Simple  Justice,  face  to  face. 

See,  with  what  a  brightening  aspect, 
He  divides  the  right  from  wrong ; 
Mark,  how  swift  his  sentence  follows ; 
Mark,  how  all  content  the  throng. 


TO    A    MYTH.  325 

But  Thou  —  swollen  and  paltry  figure, 
Blown  with  vanity,  stuffed  with  straw, 
Pander  now,  and  now  a  Tyrant, 
Dar'st  thou  call  thyself—"  The  Law  ?  " 

Where  is  all  the  heaped  confusion, 
Whereat  shrinking  Truth  repines  ? 
Wordy  nonsense  ?  leagues  of  charges, 
With  their  sixes  turned  to  nines  ? 

Where  the  ruinous,  rascal  pleadings, 
Drenched  with  spite,  and  lies,  and  ire  ? 
Twaddling  trash,  delays,  devices  ? 
—  Quick,  let's  heap  the  funeral  pyre  ! 

Quick !   Send  here  the  fusty  parchments, 
Smeared  and  spoiled  a  million  ways ; 
All  the  senseless,  worthless  rubbish  : 
Now  then,  —  set  them  all  ablaze  ! 


326  YANITY    FAIR. 


VANITY    FAIR. 

WHO'LL  sell  me  a  drum  or  a  trumpet  ? 
Who'll  buy  ?  —  here  are  colors,  a  pair  : 
Here's  drink  for  all  those  who'll  be  soldiers, 
(And  a  shilling)  at  Vanity  Fair. 

Here's  a  glass  for  an  eye  that  don't  need  it ; 
A  mask  for  a  face  that  can  stare ; 
And  a  place  in  a  Railway  Direction, 
(And  so  much  a-year,  you  may  swear). 

Here's  a  virgin,  rich,  frightful,  and  fifty ; 
Here's  a  lord,  with  his  pockets  all  bare, 
(A  young  giant,)  —  if  only  he's  thrifty, 
He's  sure  of  a  sale  at  the  fair. 

Will  you  sell  me  some  health,  you  physician  ? 
You,  sir,  with  your  head  full  of  hair, 
(Not  your  own)  will  you  puzzle  the  plaintiff, 
And  set  right  my  wrongs,  at  the  fair  ? 

Here's  a  place  for  Sir  Jeremy's  cousin ; 
He  swore  (as  you  know  he  can  swear) 
That  my  enemies  bribed  right  and  left,  when 
I  came  in  a  member  for  - —  where  ? 


VANITY    FAIR.  327 

Here's  my  lady's  own  maid  :  —  Is  it  ready, 
The  pension  rewarding  her  care  ? 
All  secrets  she  knows,  and  is  steady ; 
And  is  dumb  —  on  a  certain  affair. 

O  father,  why  droopeth  your  daughter, 
So  young,  yet  so  faded  by  care  ? 
"  She  is  come  to  be  sold,  my  fine  fellow, 
Draw  near !  she's  the  prize  of  the  fair." 

And  she,  neither  bashful  nor  forward, 
With  something  of  ton  in  her  air  ? 

0  widow,  unbosom  your  beauty ; 

1  would  tender  soft  words,  did  1  dare ; 

But  I  dare  not ;  —  and  so  as  the  daylight 

Is  fading  to  eve,  it  is  time 

To  cease,  and  be  thinking  of  dinner, 

And  to  change  both  our  dress  and  the  rhyme. 


Come,  good  friends,  take  what's  before  you  ; 
Meat  and  drink,  and  welcome  warm : 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that  bore  you, 
And  a  curse  for  him  that  means  you  harm. 


328  YA.NITY    FAIR. 

Deeply  dive  into  your  pockets ; 
Count  no  silver,  spare  no  gold  ; 
Here  is  all  the  world  of  wonders, 
Each  thing  to  be  bought  and  sold. 

Friendship  —  who  will  bid  for  friendship  ? 
Honor — look,  it  may  be  bought: 
Love  —  a  rare  and  curious  specimen, 
Found  where  it  was  never  sought. 

But  no  need  to  show  each  article. 
Here's  a  figure  for  your  grounds  I 
Spirit  show,  if  you've  a  particle  : 
Shall  I  say  "  a  thousand  pounds  ?  " 

Look  !    She  lives.    Who  bids  ?    What  beauty ! 
Mark  the  outline  of  her  form ! 
Come,  sirs,  you  have  each  a  duty 
Towards  your  country  to  perform. 

Thank  you,  sir,  —  ten  thousand  —  twenty  — 
Thirty  —  fifty —  a  hundred  !    There, 
Gone !  — Where  shall  the  lot  be  sent  t'  you  ? 
'Tis  the  prize,  sir,  of  the  fair ! 


JACK    TTJRPIN.  329 


JACK    TURPIN. 

JACK  TuKPijsr,  I  have  known  you  long  : 
My  serving  man  were  you  of  yore, 
When  I  was  young  and  you  were  strong : 
But  Age  is  knocking  at  your  door, 

And  now  your  shanks  are  shrunk  and  thin ; 
And  Time  has  forced  your  hands  to  shake ; 
(Or  can 't  be  —  beer  relieved  by  gin, 
Which  for  a  cold  you  used  to  take  ?) 

Once  you  were  villein,  I  the  knight : 
I  paid  you  with  some  pence  or  pounds  ; 
You  served  me,  fairly  whilst  in  sight ; 
Not  well  when  you  were  "  out  of  bounds." 

Dwarfed,  dogged,  boastful,  drunken,  shrewd, 
A  mute  by  day,  by  night  a  sot, 
How  often  would  you  come,  imbrued 
With  drink,  and  do — you  know  not  what. 

You  blacked  my  shoes,  you  brushed  my  coat, 
When  sober,  duly  every  morn  ; 
But  oft  I  heard  your  quavering  note  ; 
And  when  I  lashed  you  with  my  scorn, 


330  JACK    TUEPIN. 

You  shrank,  resented,  blushed  with  ire, 
Would  mostly  argue,  always  lied. 
Such  lies  as  gin  and  beer  inspire 
You  uttered  with  a  proper  pride. 

0  bragging  knave  !    Thou  had'st  a  head 
Was  round,  and  like  a  cannon-ball, 
And  some  limp  hairs  above  it  spread ; 
And  eyes  that  pierced  one  like  an  awl ; 

So  firm,  so  daring  was  your  look, 
So  unabashed  by  all  reproof ; 

1  read  you,  as  one  reads  a  book, 
For  knowledge,  and  my  own  behoof. 

The  glittering  cunning  in  those  eyes, 
The  oily,  thick,  slow,  struggling  word, 
The  helpless  smile,  the  frown  so  wise, 
All  these  I  daily  saw  and  heard. 

How  the  grand  funeral  filled  your  head  ; 
How  well  you  wove  the  weaver's  knot ; 
What  projects  rose,  and  failed,  and  fled ; 
My  work,  meanwhile,  being  all  forgot ! 

Yet,  Jack !  I  would  I  saw  you  here  : 
I  think  that  I  should  hire  you  still ; 
And  you  at  night  might  have  your  beer, 
And  sometimes,  even  by  day,  your  will. 


JACK    TUKPIN.  331 

For  you  were  honest ;  dextrous  too, 

After  a  fashion  ;  and  I  think 

I  might,  in  time,  prevail  on  you 

To  —  yes,  perhaps  —  abstain  from  drink. 

And  then,  I  think  some  faults  were  mine  ; 
That  I  in  angry  words  was  free, 
Impatient,  —  loved  my  cup  of  wine, 
Was  idle,  obstinate,  —  like  thee. 

So,  let's  cast  up  the  long  account, 

And  strike  the  balance.     Does  it  lie 

This  way  ?  or  that  ?  —  Come,  tell  th'  amount ! 

Alas  !  you  know  no  more  than  I. 

That  double  entry,  strict  and  mean, 
Jack  Turpin,  let  him  keep  who  can ; 
I  cannot :  nor  have  I  ever  seen 
One  fair  account  'tween  man  and  man. 


332  OLD    LOVE. 


OLD    LOVE. 

You  left  me  :  I  left  you  :  (trampled  down). 
Were  we  not  wrenched,  we  two,  apart, 
When  your  father's  rage  and  your  mother's  frown 
Sent  a  sting  and  a  spasm  to  either  heart  ? 

You  married,  to  pamper  a  father's  pride ; 

I  sank  to  the  furrow  and  ploughed  the  soil: 

You  were  slandered  and  praised  thro'  the  country  wide ; 

I,  quietly  scorned,  was  forced  to  toil. 

You  floated,  a  cork  on  the  topmost  wave ; 

I  fell,  a  stone  on  the  rocks  below : 

You  were  driven  about,  too  near  your  grave, 

While  I  heard  from  my  cavern  the  tempest  blow. 

But  the  tempest  fell.     It  has  left  you  — life  : 
It  has  freed  you  at  last  from  a  master  stern. 
No  need  to  re-plunge  in  the  stormy  strife, 
Or  again  the  hard  lesson  of  life  to  learn. 

I  am  here  who  have  loved  you  for  twenty  years. 
You  are  poor  :  I  am  wealthy  —  in  gold  and  land ; 
You  have  suffered  your  sorrow  ;  I  had  my  tears  : 
Peace  cometh.     I  offer  my  horny  hand, 


OLD    LOVE.  333 

My  heart,  and  my  fortune  ;  all  that's  mine  ! 
Life  still  has  its  evening ;  —  but  I  have  done  : 
If  you  love  me,  it  is  but  to  make  a  sign : 
If  not,  —  ah !  you  tremble,  and  —  you  make  none  ! 

No  sign,  —  but  a  smile,  like  the  spasm  that  ran 
Thro'  my  bosom,  now  stingeth  my  heart  with  pain  : 
'Tis  a  pang !  —  but  I  rise  up  a  wiser  man, 
And  I  turn  to  my  brother,  the  plough,  again. 


334  A    COMPLAINT. 


A    COMPLAINT. 

THE  clouds  are  heavy  :  the  night  is  flowing 
Duskily  over  the  Eastern  sky ; 
Rains  are  falling  ;  winds  are  moaning  : 
The  river  is  echoing  sigh  for  sigh. 
Upon  its  banks  is  a  maiden  plaining ; 
A  tale  she  telleth  of  grief  and  wrong ; 
And  she  utters,  to  lighten  her  sad  love-burthen, 
The  words  of  a  half-forgotten  song. 
"  A  false  friend  and  a  bitter  foe 

Is  Love  to  all  who  love  below : 

Ah !  what  is  the  use  of  our  summer  dreaming, 

If  life  must  evermore  end  in  woe  ?  " 

A  single  pause,  and  aside  she  turneth 

And  sendeth  a  thought  to  her  father  dead ; 

To  her  cottage  home  where  her  mother  mourneth  ; 

A  thought  to  her  childhood  bright  and  fled. 

Her  voice  it  is  sad  and  full  of  dread ! 

Hark !  — it  thrills  over  the  darkening  water, 

Telling  a  tale  of  future  slaughter, 

Like  the  cry  of  the  deer  when  the  hound  hath  caught  hei 
"  O  Love !  thou  bitter  foe 
To  all  who  too  much  love  below : 
Is  death  the  end  of  our  summer  dreaming  ? 
And  life  is  it  ever  more  filled  with  woe  ?  " 


A    PETITION.  335 


A    PETITION. 

You  who  dwell  in  upper  air, 

Young  and  fair ! 

Here  is  one  who  loveth  ;  take  her  to  your  care. 

Beauty  and  the  light  of  honor 

Wears  she  like  a  crown  upon  her, 

Grace  around  her  whitest  neck  is  hung  : 

Music,  sadder  now  than  came 

When  seraphs  touched  her  lips  with  flame, 

Sigheth  from  her  tongue  ; 

And  her  eyes  that  once  were  bright, 

Dazzling  on  the  aching  sight, 

Fading  are,  like  summer  evening  fading  into  night. 


Many  love  her,  but  her  bosom 
Warmeth  unto  one  unknown  ; 
Knows  he  what  a  wondrous  treasure 
Back  upon  her  heart  is  thrown  ? 
Or  the  pain  beyond  a  measure 
Borne  for  him  alone  ? 
Bid  him  come,  where'er  he  linger ; 
Whisper  in  his  charmed  ear, 
What  a  sad  sweet  beauteous  singer 
Liveth,  —  dieth  for  him  here. 


336  A   PETITION. 

You  who  dwell  in  upper  air, 

Fair  and  young,  bright  as  fair, 

Star-like,  —  lamp-like  hung  on  high, 

Angel  stars  that  never  die  ! 

Disappearing,  but  returning, 

In  your  constant  season  burning  ; 

In  the  sightless  ether  hung, 

Like  to  random  jewels  flung 

On  the  forehead  of  the  sky  ; 

Look  on  her  with  all  your  brightness, 

Bid  her  heart  resume  its  lightness  ; 

Tell  her  there  are  hopes  above  her, 

Tell  her  of  a  world  to  love  her, 

Bind  the  sweet  wreath  Hope,  that  hath  no  thorn, 

around  her  ; 
So  may  joys  arise 
And  light  her  happy  eyes, 
Till  Love  hath  kissed  the  bride,  and  orange  blooms 

have  crowned  her ! 


LIFE. 


337 


LIFE. 

IN  our  youth  we  learn ;  in  our  manhood  act. 

What  more  ?    Alas,  what  more 

Is  in  all  Life,  Fiction,  Fact, 

Than  to  see  and  hear,  toil  and  strive  to  soar, 

For  evermore ! 
What  doth  Life  contain  ?  what  doth  bind  us  here, 

In  its  thorny  round  ? 

Is  it  Hope,  —  that  fadeth  ?    Is  it  wizard  Fear 
That  enchains  our  spirits  with  its  whispered  sound  ? 

In  what  cavern  drear 

Are  Life's  pleasures  found, 

When  —  strewn  like  leaves  around  — 

Thousands  pine  and  sigh 

For  a  home  on  high, 
Some  for  gentle  rest,  beneath  the  daisied  ground  ? 


22 


338  A    WORD    ON    BEHALF    OF    WATER. 


A    WORD   ON  BEHALF   OF   WATER. 

SENT    TO   MISS   JULIA   . 

THE  murmuring  Water,  —  how  it  runs 
Its  seaward  course,  how  pure  and  clear, 
Past  all  the  snows  and  all  the  suns 
That  lie  within  the  Julian  year. 

Not  dangerous,  like  the  fiery  wines  ; 
Not  turbid,  like  the  drunken  beer ; 
It  lends  its  aid  to  all,  and  shines, 
The  glory  of  the  Julian  year. 

Once,  in  my  careless,  thoughtless  youth, 
I  sang  of  riotous  vinous  cheer  ; 
But  now  I  turn  to  simple  Truth, 
Taught  —  by  two  Julian  stars  —  to  steer. 

By  Julian  stars  I  see  the  right, 
By  Julian  stars  I  see  the  wrong, 
And  Julia,  by  her  gentle  might, 
Now  turns  my  humble  prose  —  to  song. 


ON    YORICK,    A    LITTLE    SPANIEL. 


339 


ON    Y QUICK, 


A    LITTLE    SPANIEL. 

A  LITTLE  life  has  ended ! 

Our  voices  cease  to  call, 

Our  eyes  to  look  for  one  who  was 

A  favorite  with  us  all. 


We  miss  his  eager  movements, 

His  eyes  of  tender  light  : 

There's  something  wanting  to  the  Day, 

And  something  to  the  Night. 

Six  years  we  loved  and  cherished  him, 
Six  years  he  was  our  friend ; 
And  we  tried  to  make  his  little  life 
Run  smoothly  to  the  end. 

A  great  and  terrible  Power 
Came  down  and  checked  his  breath  : 
It  comes  to  Sages,  Heroes,  Kings, 
And  then  we  call  it  "  DEATH." 


340  ON    YORICK,    A    LITTLE    SPANIEL. 

It  came  without  sound  or  warning. 
"  A  single,  feeble  cry 
Told  that  the  Shadow  fell  on  him, 
And  time  was  come  —  to  die ! 

For  men  unloved  and  meaner  things 
Let  false  vain  boastings  be  ; 
This  verse,  my  Yorick,  shall  remain 
(An  epitaph)  for  thee  ! 


341 


THE    FISHER'S    WIFE. 

THE  clouds  are  heavy  and  dark, 

The  winds  are  abroad  at  sea, 

And  the  thunder  comes  :  —  his  minute-guns 

Do  they  sound  an  alarm  for  me  ? 

They  say  that  the  waves  are  still, 
Are  as  calm  as  calm  can  be  ; 
But  I  hear  a  shriek,  as  the  waters  break  : 
My  God  !  does  he  die  for  me  ? 

Oh,  why  did  he  leave  us  all, 

And  venture  on  such  a  sea  ! 

It  was  still  at  home,  but  the  boiling  foam 

Called  out  from  afar,  to  me. 

We  have  starved  our  whole  life  long  : 
Why  not  bear  a  little  more  ? 
'Twas  better  than  send  our  one  last  friend 
To  die  on  the  stormy  shore. 

If  ever  he  come  again, 
Once  safe  from  the  murderous  sea, 
I  will  toil  for  aye,  both  night  and  day, 
So  he  never  need  toil  for  me. 


342  SONG. 


My  bairns,  they  are  clinging  around  : 
They  shout :  Is  it  death  they  see  ? 
What  is  it  they  mark  in  the  coming  dark  ? 
I  tremble  —  oh,  Life  !  'tis  HE. 


SONG. 

"  TELL  me  what  hath  bound  thee 

To  a  life  of  pain  : 

Lovers  all  surround  thee 

With  an  amorous  chain  : 

Why  dost  thou  refuse  ?    Why  dost  thou  complain  ? 

Knights  and  nobles  sue  thee 

To  become  a  bride  ; 

Wealth  and  power  woo  thee 

To  their  golden  side  : 

Why  dost  thou  refuse  ?  from  modesty  ?  from  pride  ?  " 

"  I  am  seeking  treasures 

Such  as  angels  gain, — 

Pure  untainted  pleasures, 

Thro'  the  world,  in  vain  : 

So  I  still  refuse,  —  so  I  still  complain." 


SISTERS    OF    MUSIC.  343 


SISTERS   OF   MUSIC. 

"  WHO  sings  ?  "  said  the  Spirit  of  Music, 

And  smiled  on  her  peers  : 
"  Sweet  Sorrow,   sing  Thou  !  "    Sorrow  answered, 

"  I  cannot  —  for  tears." 

"  Bright  Hope,  give  a  tongue  to  the  poems 

I  read  in  thine  eyes." 
Hope  answered —  "  My  thoughts  are  all  clouded, 

And  lost  in  the  skies." 

"  Then  Joy,  put  thy  mouth  to  the  bugle ! 

A  note  for  my  sake." 
Calm  creature,  she  sleeps  in  the  sunshine, 

And  will  not  awake. 

But  hush !  a  soft  sound  stealeth  onwards, 

Like  the  flight  of  a  dove  ; 
Ah,  I  find  that  the  Song  that  is  sweetest 

Comes  ever  from  Love. 


344  THE    SPOT    OF    GKEEN. 


THE   SPOT   OF   GREEN 

WHEN  the  winter  blbweth  loud, 
And  the  earth  is  in  a  shroud, 
Bitter  rain  and  blinding  snow 
Dimming  every  dream  below  ; 

Cheerily !  cheerily ! 
There  is  ever  a  spot  of  green, 
Whence  the  Heavens  may  be  seen. 

When  our  purse  is  shrinking  fast, 
And  our  friend  is  lost  (the  last ! ), 
And  the  world  doth  pour  its  pain 
Sharper  than  the  frozen  rain  ; 

Cheerily !  cheerily ! 
There  is  still  a  spot  of  green, 
Whence  the  Heavens  may  be  seen. 

Let  us  never  greet  despair, 
While  the  little  spot  is  there : 
For  Winter  brighteneth  into  May, 
And  sullen  Night  to  sunny  Day ; 

So  cheerily,  cheerily ! 
Let  us  seek  the  spot  of  green, 
Hopeful,  patient,  and  serene, 
Whence  the  Heavens  may  be  seen. 


PRISON  POETRY. AFTER  DEATH.       345 


PRISON   POETRY. 

OVER  the  prison  bars, 
Over  the  walls  so  high, 
Away  unto  the  stars, 
Flies  the  bird,  Poesy  ! 

No  power  can  drown  its  notes  ; 
No  steel  can  clip  its  wings ; 
Beyond  the  mists  it  floats, 
And  soars,  and  sings  ; 

Free,  as  the  air  is  clear 
From  bar  or  bond  or  chain  ; 
Its  only  prison  here 
In  the  Poet's  brain  ! 


AFTER  DEATH. 

TREAD  softly  by  this  long,  close-curtained  room  ! 

Within,  reposing  on  her  stateliest  bed, 

Lies  one  embowered  in  the  velvet  gloom ; 

A  creature,  —  dead  : 

Lately  how  lovely,  how  beloved,  how  young ! 

Around  her  beauteous  mouth,  sweet  eyes,  and  golden  hair, 


346  POVERTY. 

(Making  the  fair  thrice  fair,) 
A  poet's  first  and  tenderest  verse  was  flung. 
Now  she  lies  ghastly  pale,  stone-cold,  quite  hid 
From  balmy  April  and  the  fragrant  air, 
Upon  the  dark,  green,  silken  coverlid  ; 
Her  limbs  laid  out  to  suit  the  coffin's  shape ; 
Her  palms  upon  her  breast,  — 
At  rest ! 

What  cries  escape, 

What  sounds  come  moaning  from  the  chamber  near  ? 

Small  voices  as  of  children  smite  the  ear 

With  pity;  and  grave  notes  of  deeper  grief; 

And  sobs,  that  bring  relief 

To  hearts  which  else  might  break  with  too  much  woe, 

With  thoughts  of  long  ago, 

Loss  of  all  earthly  joy,  and  sweet  Love's  overthrow  ! 


POVERTY. 

O  POVERTY  J  O  Poverty  ! 
Children  all  of  Poverty ! 
Thou  who  tak'st  thy  humble  stand 
Trading  in  the  public  way  ! 
Thou  with  needle  in  thy  hand, 
Toiling  from  the  birth  of  morning 
Till  the  death  of  day  ! 


POVERTY.  347 

Thou  who  laborest  in  the  harvest 
For  the  wealthy  farmer's  gain  ! 
Thou  whose  pen  must  run  for  ever, 
(Ever  in  the  merry  vein,) 
Thorough  days  and  nights  of  pain  ! 
Thou  whom  Hunger's  talons  clutch, 
Or  Palsy  smiteth  with  her  crutch ! 
Thou  who  seek'st  the  'Spital's  bed, 
Stumbling  o'er  the  quick  and  dead  ! 
Beggar  of  the  sightless  eye, 
Martyr  of  the  wind  and  storm, 
Brother  of  each  passer-by, 
Who  doth  bare  his  shrunken  form 
To  the  Winter's  cruelty  ! 
•  Thou,  —  whate'er  thy  shape  or  feature, 
Or  thy  name  unknown,  or  nature, 
Natural  child  of  Poverty  ! 
Know  —  that  there  are  they  who  give 
Their  pity  to  all  things  that  live, 
And  suffer  ;  that  in  every  heart 
There  is  still  a  better  part ; 
That  at  last  the  winter  yieldeth, 
And  the  ice  is  conquered,  —  won 
By  the  glory  of  the  Sun ; 
That  the  evil  of  the  earth 
Dieth  in  a  nobler  birth  ; 
That  all  sorrow  and  all  pain 
Are  but  travelling  shadows  vain, 
Fading  in  the  mists  of  Time, 
Like  the  poet's  passing  rhyme  ! 


348  THE    ALL-SUFFICIENT. 


THE    ALL-SUFFICIENT 


You  love  the  dark  and  I  the  fair. 

You  worship  her,  so  dark  and  tall ; 

I  love  (how  much  I  love)  the  small, 

When  all  the  shapely  points  are  there, 

Round  and  smooth,  (kind  Nature's  care,) 

And  a  walk  that's  like  the  waving  air, 

Or  golden  corn  when  winds  are  blowing, 

And  a  voice  like  waters  flowing ; 

An  eye  —  what  heed  of  blue  or  grey, 

Or  hazle,  so  all  scorn 's  away, 

And  there's  just  a  touch  'tween  sad  and  gay  ? 

Let  the  mouth  be —  Oh,  a  mouth 

Such  as  when  a  rose  looks  South, 

Gathering  silver  drops  that  fall 

From  the  clouds,  that  over  all 

Swim,  as  swans  swim  in  a  lake, 

With  a  glory  in  their  wake. 

You  love  ;  I  love  ;  then,  what  heed  ?  — 
If  we  love,  and  love  indeed, 
Nothing  else,  friend,  do  we  need. 


EVENING    SONG.  349 


EVENING    SONG. 

WHISPER  low,  whisper  low ! 
Lovers  now  should  come  and  go. 
When  the  Evening  star  is  nearest 
Comes  the  kiss  that's  last  and  dearest 
Hush !    The  over-jealous  moon 
Will  overtake  us  soon. 

Whisper  soft,  whisper  soft ! 
Like  the  air  that  stirs  aloft. 
Let  thy  murmuring  softer  be 
Than  the  sighing  of  the  tree. 
Lovers  now  should  come  and  go, 
Gentlier  than  the  water's  flow. 

Farewell!    Farewell! 
They  who  kiss  must  never  tell. 
In  thine  eyes  I  see  a  light 
Breaks  the  darkness  of  the  night : 
Ah  !  —  my  lip  is  nearest  thine  ; 
Now  is  Life  divine  ! 


350 


THE    PAST. 


THE    PAST. 

MOURX  for  the  Rose  ! 

The  Rose  who  left  her  vernal  halls  unblown ; 
And  fronting  all  the  winds  with  bosom  bare, 
Was  overthrown ! 

Mourn  for  the  Past ! 

The  Past  that  was  so  pleasant  once,  so  bright : 
The  Dawn,  the  Noon,  before  we  felt  the  Eve 
That  brings  the  Night. 

The  temple  falls, 

And  the  bird  buildeth  in  the  ruined  tower ; 

And  we,  who  once  were  strong,  are  crumbling  fast, 

Power  by  Power ! 

No  Life,  no  Love 

Resumes  its  morning.     What  is  past  is  past ! 
Ay  even  Time,  if  Hebrew  songs  be  true, 
Must  die  at  last ! 


YAGTJE    WISHES. 


351 


VAGUE    WISHES. 

I  ASPIRE  ! 

Unto  that  which  hath  no  shape  ; 

Unto  that  which  hath  no  sound  ; 

High,  —  higher,  —  higher, 

I  ascend  !    I  quit  the  ground, 

The  human  earth  where  hearts  abound ; 

Swifter  than  the  Lightning's  fire 

I  aspire ! 

Past  the  high  clouds  floating  'round, 

Where  the  eagle  is  not  found, 

Past  the  million-starry  choir 

I  aspire, 

Unto  some  sublime  Desire  ! 

Wondrous  Visions  o'er  me  bend  ! 
From  the  love  of  worth  and  beauty, 
From  the  trust  that  marks  a  friend, 
To  the  highest  heights  of  Duty 
I  ascend ! 

Not  for  poor  or  selfish  end, 
Poet's  crown,  Pontiff's  tiar, 
I  aspire ! 


352  VAGUE    WISHES. 

Through  the  mist  of  foul  opinions, 
Flaming  passions,  sensual  mire, 
To  the  Mind's  serene  dominions 
I  aspire ! 

I  aspire ! 

Dread  or  doubt  shall  never  haunt 

The  music  of  my  winged  lyre  ; 

Nothing  shall  my  spirit  daunt, 

Not  the  strength,  not  the  ire, 

Not  the  diabolic  vaunt 

Of  the  Phantom  vague  and  gaunt, 

Who  with  eyes  of  fatal  fire, 

And  his  quiver  of  arrows  dire, 

Scares  the  world.     Death,  avaunt ! 

Know  that  even  beyond  the  strife 

Of  Love  and  Hate,  of  Death  and  Life, 

Higher  ever,  —  ever  higher, 

I  aspire ! 


10YE    FOR    LOYE.  353 


LOVE    FOR    LOVE. 

NOT  because  of  Beauty, 

Or  thy  golden  dower, 
Hast  thou,  sweet  one,  over  me 

Such  surpassing  power. 

Not  thine  eyes  of  April, 

Not  thy  rose-fed  youth, 
Not  thy  gentle  ways  and  words 

Won  my  love  and  truth. 

Not  by  all  enchanted 

Do  I  bend  the  knee  : 
Sweet  Heart,  I  love  thee  —  because 

Thou  so  lovest  me. 


23 


354  THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  SONG. 


THE   PHILOSOPHER'S    SONG. 

TELL  me  not  that  you  forget 
All  our  pleasant  summer  season, 
When  we  had  no  dun  or  debt, 
When  we  loved  without  a  reason ; 
When  the  sky  was  sunny  bright, 
Music  in  the  river  flowing, 
And  the  heart  was  ever  light, 
And  the  roses  ever  blowing. 

Why  should  chance,  or  others'  will, 
Beggar-rags,  or  regal  ermine, 
Ever  shape  our  good  or  ill, 
Or  our  happy  days  determine  ? 
We  have  hope  within  us,  here, 
Deep  within  the  true  heart's  centre. 
Why  should  envy,  why  should  fear, 
Why  should  poor  ambition  enter  ? 

In  his  heart  a  man  should  reign, 

King  of  all  that  stirs  within  it : 

Idle  pleasure,  idler  pain, 

Should  not  have  command  a  minute. 

Drink,  then,  to  the  days  of  old  ; 

Be  it  wine,  or  sober  water  : 

Here's  to  thee,  my  friend  of  gold, 

Thee,  and — Ah  !  thy  peerless  daughter! 


LOVE-BIRD.  355 


LOVE-BIRD. 

WITHIN  the  chambers  of  her  breast 
Love  lives  and  makes  his  downy  nest, 
Midst  opening  blooms  and  fragrant  flowers, 
And  there  he  dreams  away  the  hours  :  — 
There  let  him  rest ! 

Sometime  hence,  when  the  cuckoo  sings, 
I'll  come  by  night  and  bind  his  wings, 
Bind  him,  that  he  shall  not  roam 
From  his  warm  white  virgin  home. 

Maiden  of  the  summer  season, 
Angel  of  the  rosy  time, 
Come  !  unless  some  graver  reason 
Bid  thee  scorn  my  rhyme  ; 
Come,  from  thy  serener  height 
On  a  golden  crown  descending,  — 
Come,  ere  Love  hath  taken  flight ! 
And  let  thy  stay  be  like  the  light, 
When  its  glory  hath  no  ending 
In  the  Northern  night ! 


356  HERMELIN". 


HERMELIN. 

OH,  Love  is  a  sweet-winged  thief, 

Hermelin ! 
He  stealeth  the  red  from  the  rose's  leaf, 

My  Hermelin. 

He  stealeth  the  light  from  the  azure  eye, 
-The  heart  from  the  bosom,  and  then  we  die, 

Gentle,  gentle  Hermelin. 

He  seemed  but  a  sweet-souled  child, 

Hermelin ! 
And  we  trusted  his  smile  and  his  eyes  so  mild, 

My  Hermelin. 

And  we  moulded  his  words  to  a  daily  song ; 
We  trusted,  —  and  ah,  we  have  suffered  wrong, 

Gentle,  gentle  Hermelin  ! 

So,  bar  out  the  sweet  winged  thief, 

Hermelin  ! 
Or  your  days  will  be  dark  and  wild  and  brief, 

My  Hermelin : 

And  your  spirit  will  fade,  and  your  tender  eye 
Will  vanish  in  tears,  and  —  so  you'll  die, 

Gentle,  gentle  Hermelin ! 


SONG. 


SONG. 

SICK  am  I,  sweet  love,  to-day ; 
Weary,  wandering  have  I  been, 
Led  astray  by  dreams  and  visions 
Thro'  the  wild  weird  forest  green. 

Let  thy  white  hand  fall  on  me, 
Gently,  like  the  alighting  dove, 
Scarcely  felt,  yet  bearing  with  it, 
Oh  !  —  a  world  of  love  ! 

Let  thy  smiles  be  mine,  —  and  tears, 
And  kisses,  crimsoning  like  the  West, 
When  the  sun  and  breezes  tremble 
In  the  rose's  breast. 

So  shall  I  revive,  —  and  sing, 
As  1  sang  when  young  and  free, 
All  the  tenderer  notes  dissolving 
In  a  hymn  to  thee  ! 


357 


358  P^ST.  AND    PRESENT. 


PAST    AND    PRESENT 

HEARTS  we  had  in  our  sunny  youth, 

Steps  as  light  as  the  winds  that  flee  ; 

She  was  fair  as  the  angel  Truth  ; 

I  —  as  fond  as  a  boy  could  be. 
Now, 

Cloudy  skies  and  the  sullen  showers 
Have  dimmed  the  pleasures  that  once  were  ours. 

I  had  hope  like  a  thought  in  June, 
She  had  tears  like  an  April  rain  ; 
When  she  spoke,  'twas  a  song  in  tune, 
When  she  sighed,  'twas  a  rose  in  pain. 

Now, 

Wintry  winds  and  the  stormy  showers 
Have  scattered  the  sweets  from  songs  and  flowers 
Come,  let  us  fly 
To  a  distant  sky, 
And  dwell  where  the  summer  may  still  be  ours. 


A    COMMON    CHARACTER.  359 


A    COMMON    CHARACTER. 

I  LOYE  him,  that  man  so  true  : 
You  love  this,  —  our  friend  so  pleasant, 
With  his  cordons  red  and  blue. 
T'other  ?  —  'Faith,  he's  but  a  peasant ; 

Yet  I  love  him.     In  his  eyes 
Lying  see  I  not,  nor  scorning, 
But  the  lights  within  them  rise, 
Clear,  and  like  an  April  morning  : 

Not  too  warm  ;  nor  yet  too  cold, 
For,  with  but  a  little  pressing, 
He  will  show  a  heart  of  gold, 
Past  all  Californian  guessing. 

Look !  all  virtues  in  him  found 
Pierce  the  outer  surface  glowing, 
Truth,  Love,  Courage,  Knowledge  sound, 
And  —  a  few  errors,  worth  your  knowing. 


360  SONG    FOR   ALL    SEASONS. 


SONG   FOR   ALL   SEASONS 

WHEN  March  tempests  smite  the  pine, 
Straight  I  dream  of  thee  and  thine, 

And  Spring  so  soon  to  be  : 
When  the  sweet  bee,  hour  by  hour, 
Rifles  in  the  red-rose  flower, 

Still  I  sigh  for  thee  : 

For  thy  voice,  methinks,  is  ringing 
'Midst  the  little  laborer's  singing. 

Busy  Insect-Song, 
Delving  deep  for  honey  treasure, 
Making  very  toil  a  pleasure, 

Runs  its  life  along. 

When  the  black  wild  Winter  throws 
His  icy  gauntlet  down,  and  blows 

His  trumpet  to  the  sea  ; 
And  the  great  Sea  answers  loud, 
From  his  throne  amid  the  cloud, 

Still  I  think  on  thee. 

In  the  departing  Summer's  night, 
And  when  the  swallow  takes  her  flight 
Over  land  and  sea, 


SONG    FOR    ALL    SEASONS.  361 

And  in  Autumn  storms  and  thunders, 
Thro'  the  rain-dark  misty  wonders, 
I  look  out  for  thee. 

To  every  sound  my  Spirit  wakes, 
From  every  hue  a  color  takes, 

That  brings  me  back  to  thee  : 
Ah !  when  wilt  thou,  so  deep  in  debt, 
Thy  scorn,  and  power,  and  pride  forget, 

And  think,  for  once,  of  me  ? 


362  A.    QUESTION    ANSWERED. 

A    QUESTION    ANSWERED. 

"  WHY  do  you  love  ?  " 

"  You  ask  me  why  ? 
'Tis  for  a  look,  a  smile,  a  sigh ; 
A  little  look  that  no  one  notes, 
A  little  sigh  that  hither  floats, 
And  alights  upon  a  tender  heart. 
Never  felt  I  pang  or  smart 
From  that  soft  melodious  thrilling, 
That  so  stealeth  round  and  round 
My  bosom.     Not  a  single  sound, 
Harsher  than  a  wood-dove's  billing, 
Wakes  me  from  the  dreams  that  creep 
Through  all  my  golden  sleep. 
Half  asleep,  half  awake, 
In  the  slumberous  joy  I  slake 
Thirst  for  knowledge,  thirst  for  power ; 
Yielding,  like  a  bending  flower, 
To  the  influence  of  the  hour. 
—  Wherefore  ask  me  why  I  love  ? 
There  are  reasons  here,  —  above 
All  your  mathematic  reckoning, 
Smiles  and  looks  (I  told  you)  beckoning 
Me  from  every  old  annoy, 
Into  the  summer  land  of  joy. 


A    QUESTION    ANSWERED.  363 

I  leave  behind  the  storm,  the  strife ; 

I  bear  with  me  the  sun  of  life  : 

Imagination's  wealth  is  mine  : 

The  human  has  become  divine  : 

I  bask  upon  a  faery  shore  : 

I  love  :  I  am  happy.     Well !  —  what  more  ?  " 


364  FORSAKE    ME    NOT. 


FORSAKE   ME   NOT. 

FORSAKE  me  not,  forsake  me  not, 

When  I  am  dead  ! 

Leave  me  not,  tho'  life  be  fled, 

But  tend  me  to  the  last : 

And  tell  me  when  my  love  is  shed, 

And  my  morn  is  overcast, 

Shall  I  be  by  all  forgot, 

Like  a  flower  whose  stem  is  broken  ? 

Ah,  watch  beside  me,  gentle  maid, 

Let  me  not  in  earth  be  laid, 

Till  a  token 

Be  enwreathed  around  me, 

Binding  me  to  those  who  stay 

Still  beneath  the  sunny  day ; 

Like  the  love  that  bound  me 

To  your  heart,  so  long  ago  ; 

When  the  phantom,  Death,  did  call, 

Whispering  from  beneath  his  pall, 

With  a  voice  'tween  joy  and  woe, 

Long  ago  !  long  ago  ! 


FROM    THE    LAMP.  365 


FROM    THE    LAMP. 

FEED  me  with  the  fragrant  oil, 
Lest  I  fade  ;  lest  I  die  ! 
In  my  brazen  home  I  toil 
From  the  dusk  till  morn  is  nigh, 
Lighting  thee  upon  thy  way, 
So  thou  mayst  not  stop  or  stray, 
As  thou  travellest  alone 
Through  the  starry  lands  unknown, 
Or  in  regions  where  the  streams 
Of  Poesy  refine  the  brain 
With  sweet  thoughts  nectarean. 
Often  do  I  bring  thee  Dreams, — 
Fairy  Fancies,  that  in  bands 
Hither  glide  from  haunted  lands, 
Where  in  deepest  forest  shade  $ 
Love  is  nearest  Wisdom  laid  ; 
Dreams,  that,  at  the  midnight  drear, 
Thou  mayst  in  the  silence  hear,  — 
Sounds  of  silver  trumpets  blown, 
Or  the  Viol's  richest  tone, 
Drawn  to  fine  ecstatic  length, 
By  a  master-artist's  strength. 

As  a  grain,  refreshed  in  need, 
Kiseth  from  the  buried  seed 


366  FROM    THE    LAMP. 

Into  sweet  requiting  flowers, 

Pleasant  in  the  sultry  hours  ; 

Feed  me  now,  and  in  return 

I  will  rise  and  I  will  burn, 

And  will  bear  thee  pleasant  light 

Through  the  darkness  of  the  night. 


TO    THE    LAMP.  367 


TO    THE    LAMP. 

IN  my  youth  I  fed  thee 
With  a  learned  oil ; 
In  my  manhood  bred  thee 
To  a  life  of  toil. 

What  has  been  thy  glory, 
Under  star  or  sun  ? 
Tell  me  all  thy  story  ; 
All  that  thou  hast  won. 

Nothing !  —  Thou  didst  slumber 
Through  the  wastes  of  time, 
Or  but  help  to  cumber 
Leaves  with  idle  rhyme. 

All  our  poet-treasure, 
Coin  by  coin,  is  strung. 
Let  us  part :  — The  measure 
Of  the  song  is  sung ! 


368  A    FAREWELL    TO    VERSE. 


A    FAREWELL    TO    VERSE. 

SWEET  Muse  !  my  friend  of  many  years,  —  Farewell ! 
Sweet  Mistress,  who  did  never  do  me  wrong  ; 
But  still  with  me  hast  been  content  to  dwell 
Through  summer  days  and  winter  evenings  long ; 
Sweet  Nurse,  whose  murmur  soothed  my  soul,  Farewell! 
I  part  with  thee  at  last,  —  and  with  thy  song! 

Never  again,  unless  some  Spirit  of  might, 

That  will  not  be  denied,  command  my  pen, 

Never  again  shall  I  essay  to  write 

What  thou  (I  thought !)  didst  prompt:    Never  again 

Lose  me  in  dreams  until  the  morning  light, 

Or  soar  with  thee  beyond  the  worlds  of  men. 

Farewell !  —  The  plumage  drops  from  off  my  wing  : 
Life  and  its  humbler  tasks  henceforth  are  mine ! 
The  lark  no  longer  down  from  Heaven  doth  bring 
That  music  which,  in  youth,  I  deemed  divine  : 
The  winds  are  mute  ;  the  river  dares  not  sing :  — 
Time  lifts  his  hand,  —  and  I  obey  the  sign  ! 


/I 

J 


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14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED       , 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or        * 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  1« 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


3Sep'6lDD       i 

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CIRC    MAR:;  B 

AUG  ?t  4  1961 

t       7De'64BE 

ij    LU1 

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Wl  8  2  d3S     Q,m 

/ 

GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


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